The Bloody Hand
by Mincemaker
Summary: What started as a run-in-the-mill murder mystery was revealed to be something far worse. As the crisis escalated and plunged Salzenmund into a climate of fear and paranoia, former watchman Giselbert Gottschalk strove to expose the conspiracy which threatened his way of life and all he held dear.
1. Prologue

**(Late) Author's Note:**Mincemaker here. This is my first attempt at a Warhammer fiction, and as of writing, I had already written twelve chapters. I am taking this opportunity to reread and revise all that I had written, since I do not have the fortune of having an editor to help me out with that. Anyway, I claim no ownership for anything in the Warhammer IP. Seriously. It belongs to Games Workshop. I'm using the rich world of Warhammer and the concepts to write a story of my own.

Criticisms, comments and suggestions are appreciated. In fact, please criticise to your heart's content, so long as it does not devolve into a personal attack. No author has ever improved without some intense grilling over his writing now, hasn't it?

Also, as you notice, this story is rated M. No, this is not a mistake. As the story progresses, death tolls will soar, corpses will be desecrated, heretics will be burnt, along with other horrifying things. We can't have Warhammer without gruesome death and sanity-blasting horror now, can we?

**2/2/2013: **Did some proofreading. Send PM if any more mistakes I missed is found. Also suggest better phrasing for any dodgy sentences.

**The Bloody Hand**

**Act I: Salzenmund**

**Prologue**

It was a night of ill omens. Morrslieb grinned hideously in the skies above the large town of Salzenmund. Salzenmund is the center of governance of the Barony of Nordland, the northernmost province of the Empire, and the only province with a coast.

Salzenmund is very large for a town, large enough to be mistaken for a city. It sits beside one of the tributaries of River Salz, from which it derived its name. Gausser Keep, the seat of power of Elector Count Theoderic Gausser, looms from behind the hills of Jutone's Nest, a short walking distance away from Salzenmund. The town's most prominent feature is the Temple of Ulric, an ancient hexagonal temple made entire out of wood, dedicated to the God of Wolves, War and Winter.

The slums of Salzenmund was rowdy that night. Six silhouettes were scuffling in the dark alleyway of the slum. A tall figure punched a large and broad person hard enough to knock him into the ground. He picked up the broad person by the back of his collar and slammed him into the wall. Another figure, short and lean, approached him, a long piece of wood in hand. With all his might, he brought his weapon down. The tall silhouette staggered for a moment before backhanding him. He picked up the plank of wood and broke it upon the shorter figure's head, and was rewarded with an "Aaargh!"

And there was tranquility.

The tall figure spat as he bent down and picked up a bulbous object, which he then placed onto a crate. He produced a short and thin stick, which he struck to a box. He then slid the lit match into the bulbous object, lighting its wick. The light emanating from the cracked lantern revealed the blue and yellow leather jack draped upon his thin form, the cloak, bearing the heraldry of Nordland on his back and the helmet, with its yellow and blue plumes, covering his head: the uniform of a Salzenmund Watchman.

The uniform was weathered, exhibiting numerous signs of wear and tear. The watchman, a rugged though scruffy youth, looked just as battered as his uniform, as though he had lived through a protracted siege. He picked up the lantern and surveyed the alley around him with hard but weary eyes. A broad, heavily muscled thug lay groaning on the dirty ground, his nose broken and his face bloodied. The short, tattooed and bald thug lay unconscious in a pile of rubbish, vomit and dung.

"Never a dull night, eh, Gis?"

Another figure, slightly shorter than the tall man, spoke as he brushed the dirt and grime off his uniform. Giselbert Gottschalk of the Salzenmund Watch turned around, his lantern illuminating the features of his companion, a man about as young as he was, though not as weathered and rugged. He did, however, have a long scar stretching from his nose to his cheeks. At his feet was a scarred thug in tattered clothes and behind him was a juvenile, groaning while covering his face, blood pooling beside him.

"For once, I wished it were a dull night," Giselbert answered irritably. Lanric Schwart shielded his eyes and complained loudly, "Giselbert, put that away!" Giselbert lowered his lantern immediately and muttered his apology.

"Should we take them back to the headquarters, Gis?" Lanric asked as he lightly kicked the down thug. "Probably. Might get a bonus for this haul. Why don't you go back to the headquarters and ask the Captain to send someone. We ain't going to cart these sods back by ourselves. I will stay here and watch them," Giselbert suggested as he handed his lantern over. Lanric nodded while he received the lantern. "Don't beat them up too much, alright, Gis?" Lanric's voice trailed away as he turned and left for the headquarters.

Giselbert shrugged as he leaned against the wall. He looked up into the sky. Hideous, horrible Morrslieb grinned at him, almost eclipsing Mannslieb, the larger, more brilliant moon. He turned his gaze towards the moaning and squirming thugs around him and frowned. He rubbed his chin and his cheeks. He held his forehead, shook his head and exhaled a very tired and heavy sigh.

Giselbert shivered as the cold night breeze blew through the winding paths of the slums. He brought his cloak tighter around him as he sneezed. He then drew his hip flask and attempted to drain some of the alcoholic fluids within. Only two drops touched his tongue. The watchman cursed himself for not buying more vodka before he started his shift. His jacket and cloak were barely enough to ward off the autumn chills of Nordland.

Giselbert stopped cursing abruptly. There was something going on a few distances away, out on the main road. He could hear the clip-clopping of hooves and the creaking of wheels. "A vehicle so late at night in Salzenmund?" he wondered.

Curiosity roused, Giselbert Gottschalk left his post and ran, following the trail of the sound. He found himself leaving the narrow pathways of the Slums District and onto the main road of Salzenmund. The vehicle was already gone. The watchman could not see any sign of the vehicle. Giselbert decided not to investigate further and to return to his post, before Lanric returned and complained about his absence. It was then he noticed the silhouette of a figure lying on the road.

The watchman rubbed his eyes and squinted, making sure his tired eyes weren't playing tricks on him. The silhouette laid still. The watchman walked closer. He wished he did not give his lantern to Lanric. The street lights were not bright enough for him to make out the figure clearly. All that he could make out of it was that it was lying sideways, with its back turned to him, and that its donned in loose-fitting clothes.

The watchman walked closer. He noted the person's feature. Judging from the shape of his body, Giselbert Gottschalk surmised him to be a man of forty five to fifty winters. He also noticed some lighter shades on his hair, reinforcing his impression that he was dealing with an elderly. "He must have had a fight with his wife and got thrown out into the streets," the watchman thought. He walked closer while speaking loudly and clearly, "Sir! The town isn't safe tonight. You should not sleep here."

The 'sleeping man' did not answer.

"Should I take you home and settle the issue between you and your wife?" Giselbert asked again as he walked closer to the 'sleeping' figure. Giselbert's offer was unanswered. Giselbert shook his head, regretting that he would have to give this elderly man a rude awakening.

"Sir?" Giselbert asked again as he knelt down and crawled towards the 'sleeping man', ready to shake him awake.

It was then Giselbert noticed something strange about the sleeping man: his legs were unnaturally bent and were bound together.

The watchman swallowed his saliva. He crawled cautiously towards the corpse, making sure he did not step on or touch any bodily fluids. He then put his hands on the man's shoulders and turned him around.

He found the old man a still cooling corpse.

Giselbert Gottschalk gasped and retreated from the corpse in horror. Someone had died here! He stood up, gasping to calm his palpitating heart. "Alright, calm down, Gis. Calm down and take a deep breath. This is not the first time you are dealing with an ex-person. Take a deep breath. That's it," Giselbert muttered to himself as he paced back and forth. He then inhaled deeply and exhaled and rubbed his face with both his palms. He pulled his hip flask from his belt and attempted to drink its contents. Not a single drop touched his tongue. Irritated, he cursed aloud.

"Calmed down yet, Gis? Good. Now it's time to stop fidgeting like a little girl and start acting like a watchman!" Gis thought aloud. He turned and walked carefully to the corpse, making sure he did not tread into any bodily fluids or disturb any debris. Upon reaching the corpse, he knelt down slowly, eyes warily glancing at the area around him. He then cautiously examined the corpse.

The old man was gagged, his eyes wide. His hands were bound as tightly as his legs. His hair was untidy and caked in blood. His face was heavily bruised. A long, thin red line grinned across his neck from ear to ear. There was a strange sigil etched into his forehead. He squinted his eyes and looked around, trying to examine the area around the corpse, trying to see despite the darkness.

He noticed a very dark line on the side of the road. Giselbert got up and walked cautiously towards the lines warily. He knelt down and bent forward, trying to examine the lines. He noticed that the lines have a slightly grainy texture. It also looked moist. "Mud skids," he thought. "The vehicle I tried to follow earlier did pass by here."

He then got up and looked around again. He noticed small patches of blood heading away from the corpses. He also realized that the corpse was not lying in a pool of blood, nor were there large bloodstains in the area. "The victim was brought here, probably by the vehicle. He wasn't killed here, however," he thought. He then decided that the vehicle could be a wagon. "Corpses don't drop off carriages and lie down like this," he reasoned.

Giselbert Gottschalk placed his gloved palm onto his face and groaned. There was no doubt about it. He had witnessed a carefully premeditated murder. This will take a while, and knowing the Captain of the Watch, he will not be allowed to go off-duty come morning.

"Sodding salted cod!"


	2. Chapter 1

**8/11/2012: **Added glossary.

**2/2/2013:** My apologies for the roughness of the previous version. It was unbelievable that I even uploaded such an unpolished product. Here's the new, proof-read Chapter 1.

**Chapter 1: One Fine Morning**

Darkness retreated as the rays of the morning sun caressed the streets and the buildings of the town below. Unfortunately, the warm glows of the sunrise did little to improve the mood of the townspeople of Salzenmund. Someone was murdered in cold blood and his corpse was left out for all to see.

Men, women and children, old and young, nobles and peasants, they had all come and gathered to bear witness to the horrible deed done in this place. Three cloaked men in blue and yellow cordoned off the area, to prevent them from meddling with their investigation. Not that it discouraged them from trying to get a closer look. Those who weren't stupefied by the sight instead filled their time sharing rumours and gossips, which grew more horrific with each utterance.

Giselbert Gottschalk did not care if the bystanders talked themselves into hysteria. For him, their trouble was none of his concern, not when he himself was facing a far direr predicament. He looked up into the cold, dark and accusing eyes of Josef Aushwitz, the Captain of the Watch. Josef Aushwitz, age forty five, bore an imposing but stereotypical figure of a wealthy swine. He was bloated and obese. His face was almost obscured by his outrageously-styled beard and mustache. His uniform was so excessively adorned that Giselbert could barely make out the blue on his uniform. His only redeeming feature was his long white hair, which was neatly groomed.

Giselbert sighed, looked down, gripped the sides of his forehead and shook his head. He then looked up at the sneering figure of Captain Aushwitz. "Look, I have said this before and I will say this again. I am not involved in this murder." Josef Aushwitz snorted, his fat belly rippled under his uniform. "I heard a vehicle of some sort pass by and I suspected something was up. I left my post to investigate and then I found this man lying over there, deader than a log."

Josef Aushwitz snorted again. "A likely story! Oh very likely! How can a vermin like you tell the difference between a vehicle and a cow? How could a worm like you know a corpse when you see one?" Josef sneered with a holier-than-thou tone.

Giselbert Gottschalk sighed as he held his face. That chauvinist Captain was ignoring everything he said, just as how he had ignored all his reports ever since he took up the position of Captain.

"I said..."

"Look, Giselbert Gottschalk, you little rat. I know you are up to something and I swear to Ulric and Sigmar (1) and Taal (2) and whoever that I will find the truth! Lie all you want, but one day, I'll get you. Oh, yes, I will!" Josef Aushwitz spat at him and walked away. "And don't you touch anything! You and your dirty hands will only serve to turn good evidence into dung!"

Giselbert Gottschalk groaned as he wiped his face. He had been interrogated by the Captain for at least three hours. He was weary, stressed and fatigued. He wanted to go home and sleep. Unfortunately, he could not. The swine would not allow it until he could 'prove' that he was innocent. And the only way to 'prove' his innocence that he could think of was to solve the case. He wobbly got up, only to almost collapse again.

Lanric Schwart caught the falling Giselbert Gottschalk. "Take it easy," he said. "Have something to fill your stomach." Lanric helped Giselbert to the roadside and gave him a piece of bread and his hip flask, filled with water.

"You really shouldn't have left those thugs back there. Look what you got yourself into," Lanric reprimanded his partner as Giselbert opened his flask to wet his parched throat. "I know, I know. Curiosity killed the cat. You don't have to sound like my Mother, you know," Giselbert grumbled as he munched on his bread.

After filling his stomach and having a three minutes rest, Giselbert Gottschalk rose up and walked towards the corpse. He could now see more of the crime scene. The mud skid was still there, and so were the corpse and the faint trail of blood. "So, what do you think, Giselbert?" Lanric inquired. "I am not certain. I didn't have a good look of the corpse when the Captain arrived," Giselbert replied. "Well, I best leave you to it then. I will talk to Klaus and Johannes there to ensure that you are not disturbed," Lanric bowed slightly. He left Giselbert for the two watchmen cordoning the crime scene and spoke to them.

Giselbert knelt and re-examine the corpse. There were bruises all around the face of the deceased. The watchman balled up his fist and took a good look at it, before turning to look at the bruises. He then pulled out a wooden rod and prodded the victim's skull, to find a large bruise on the back of his head. Giselbert then examined the rest of the corpse. The legs of the corpse were definitely broken, and so were the arms. However, there was a lack of dirt on the soles of the victim. Giselbert noticed red inflamed lines around the man's wrist and ankles. Giselbert Gottschalk poked and prodded the corpse with his rod and noticed that the corpse was tender at several parts of his chest. Using the rod, he then lifted the chin slightly up. After staring at the wound on the victim's neck for a while, Giselbert noticed that the cut was much thinner than what he associated with dagger strokes. Moreover, whatever made this had left quite a mess. There was also a notable lack of clotted blood. "Curious," thought the watchman as he drew a knife and pried the wound slightly open, and noted that no blood flowed from the opening. He held the corpse on the back and very easily flopped it.

The watchman then examined the sigil carved into the forehead of the corpse. The sigil was made out of thin angular lines, shaped like a clawed hand and resembled a rune, of which he did not recognise.

Giselbert noted that the victim's torn pajamas had far lesser bloodstains on it than expected. The way it was torn and the many scratches on the skin beneath, all following the same direction, convinced the watchman that the victim was thrown out of the vehicle, and that the vehicle had hurtled down the street at high velocity. Satisfied, he then stood up to continue the survey. The mud skid was a lot more obvious under the morning sun, and there were no footprints.

"Get out of me way!" a high pitched voice screeched as a lanky figure pushed his way through the crowd. This arrival too bore the colours of Nordland, and the uniform of the Watch. Giselbert groaned. "Sigmar's holy codpiece!" he muttered under his breath.

Lieutenant Hansel Aushwitz looked absolutely nothing like his father. While his father was fat, Hansel was slim. His face was clean-shaven and devoid of imperfection. He did, however, have his father's eyes. His long sandy brown hair, tied up in a ponytail, flailed behind him as he approached Giselbert Gottschalk. "I believe Father said not to touch anything?" Hansel scowled.

Giselbert Gottschalk nodded and took a step back. Hansel scanned the crime scene. He clasped his hand with glee. With a loud voice and a lot of exaggerated body gestures, he exclaimed, "Ahah! It is as clear as day! This old man is murdered at home! However, while the murderer tries to carry the corpse away for disposal, his corpse dropped from his cart! He was left here as the murderer left in a hurry!"

Giselbert Gottschalk dropped his face into his palm and groaned. "Sigmar have mercy!" he thought. "Lieutenant, I'm afraid that this murder might not have transpired the way you imagined. From my examination, it seemed as though he did not fall off the cart, or wagon, or whatever vehicle it might be. Rather, judging from the scratches and the tearing of his clothes, as well as his broken limbs and possible broken ribs, I think he might have been thrown off the vehicle," the slum-born watchman replied, his hoarse voice interrupted his Lieutenant's theatrics.

Hansel frowned as he glared at Giselbert, wearing the looked of someone being greeted by something repulsive. "The broken limbs and ribs might be the act of the murderer! They broke his limbs in an attempt to murder him!" "That would not be possible," the lesser-ranked watchman contradicted his superior. He knelt down beside the corpse and, wielding a rod, pointed at the inflammation around the wrist and ankles. "If his limbs were broken, he couldn't have struggled hard enough to suffer these wounds."

"And how did you know that he was thrown off the 'cart', Giselbert?" Hansel inquired with a challenging tone. "Injuries on the corpse as well as the condition of his skin and night-clothes seem to suggest that he was thrown out of the vehicle and onto this road deliberately. The extent of the injury also suggested that the wagon was moving at high speed when he was thrown off. However, only a doktor would know for sure. I recommend sending this corpse for his examination," Giselbert explained.

Hansel, incensed but speechless, looked briefly at the corpse and then at Giselbert. His lips curled into a sneer. "I believe the correct word is 'physician'. And why do you think that the corpse was carried by a wagon?"

Giselbert blinked and asked, "Isn't a cart the same as a wagon?" "It isn't! A wagon is four wheeled and can carry multiple passengers! A cart, on the other hand, has two wheels and can at most carry two!" Hansel triumphantly criticized Giselbert. "Also, I am here because I have received a report from a few stevedores that one of the houses had been broken into. I want you to go there and investigate and see if it has a link to this murder. Here is the address. I believe you can read? Now get out of my sights!" Hansel dismissed Giselbert.

Giselbert shrugged as he turned to leave the crime scene. Lanric, noticing Giselbert's heaving shoulders slowly disappearing amongst the crowd, hurried to join his partner.

* * *

The Docks District was thirty minutes walk away from the crime scene, in the western side of Salzenmund. It consisted of a single, wide brick road which runs along the riverside. The docks were located at the muddy banks of the very wide and very deep River Salz. Ferries travelled to and fro the villages along the banks of the river. Merchant ships, bearing the colours of Marienburg negotiated the crowded rivers to dock at the ports of the district. Cargo ships were afloat off the banks while its captains negotiated docking privileges so that they may unload their cargo of Laurelorn timber. The wide expanses of Laurelorn Forest could be seen on the other side of the river. At a distance, the white, rectangular building of the Ports Authorities building stuck out like a sore thumb.

Houses, shops, taverns, warehouses and shipyards lined either side of the street of the Docks District. Most of them were run down and in various states of disrepair. The houses were mostly shut and only a few shops were still opened, peddling its wares to the few traders, merchants, mercenaries, fortune seekers and townspeople walking the streets. Lanric and Giselbert narrowly dodged a hurrying wagon, presumably heading towards the Market District. At this hour, the taverns were silent. Only the shipyard was still bustling with activity, as shipbuilders hurried to build new battleships to replace those lost during the devastating war known as the Storm of Chaos (3) a decade ago.

It took Giselbert and Lanric four quarters of an hour to reach their destination. The brick building which the address belonged to was two stories high. It was flanked by two more houses of the same height. These houses had broken windows, scraped paint and missing roof tiles. All its three windows were shut, curtains drawn. The door was broken into three pieces. Two pieces were groaned, precariously attached to their hinges. The road outside the house was muddy, and there were presence of footprints, hoof-prints and long depressions in the mud outside the house.

"Lanric, interview the neighbours. I will handle the insides," Giselbert requested. Lanric nodded, put on his helmet and set off to work.

Giselbert Gottschalk took a look at the footprints, of which there were three sets, none of which had identical sizes. After burning the image of the footprints into his mind, Giselbert looked away and took a cautious step into the house. He removed his muddy boots and left it at the steps outside. He unhooked his lantern from his belt and lit it to illuminate the interior.

He was in the commons. There are three chairs, knocked over. The table, however, was intact. Giselbert Gottschalk shone his lantern at the table and noticed some clear impressions and a dust trail.

Giselbert Gottschalk then shone the lantern on the floor and saw two sets of muddy footprints, similar to the ones outside. He was positive that these belonged to the culprits. Noting the distance between the footprints, he then strode towards the stairs to find that they were footprint-free. The watchman then continued his examination of the commons, walking around cautiously. He could see some bloodstains on the floor: a small patch of blood on the table.

Satisfied with his examination of the house commons, Giselbert Gottschalk slowly ascended up the stairs. The second floor was occupied by the bedroom, inside which there was an untidy bed and a study table. On the study table, Giselbert found letters, which he picked up to read. He couldn't understand most of the content; most of the words were too difficult for him. Sighing, he pocked the letters and returned downstairs.

Lanric Schwart had returned and had helped himself in. "Right, how I say this? The two houses beside this one were empty so I talked to the folks out back. They claimed to have heard nothing," the watchman reported. "So, what had you found?"

"I found some letters, but I can't read most of the words," Giselbert replied as he handed over the letters to Lanric. Lanric nodded sadly. Giselbert learnt to read and write by attending sermons in the Temple of Ulric and the Temple of Sigmar. That did not allow him build up much vocabulary. Lanric took a look at the letters and envelopes and said, "Letters from children and grandchildren from Middenheim (6). Nothing useful, just a fancy way of saying how much they missed the victim and would be coming back for Sigmarzeit (7). Sigmar bless them, they are going to faint when they get back. However, I got the poor man's name. His name is, well, was Ludwig Bachmeier. Gis?"

Giselbert Gottschalk was staring at the table, deep in thought. "Giselbert?" Lanric, visibly worried, shook Giselbert Gottschalk.

"Three men on a wagon," started the taller watchman. "I'm sure it's a wagon this time. They arrived at this door. They got down. One of them waited outside as the other two broke down the door. Ludwig Bachmeier heard the noise and went downstairs, and the two men attacked him. Definitely men, judging by the footprints. They punched him and knocked him into the desk. His head must have hit the edge, and he was knocked out. No pools of blood, so definitely not killed in this house.

The culprits tied up his limbs and gagged him. They carried him into the wagon. They either carved the sigil before or after Ludwig was carried into the wagon, using a very thin blade."

"You meant a scalpel, right?" Lanric asked. "Maybe," Giselbert replied. "Ludwig woke up when he was in the wagon. He struggled in his bindings. Not sure he woke up by himself, or the murderers roused him. Too many bruises on Ludwig's face.

They slit his throat with a thin and serrated weapon. I think the murderers may have drained his blood, considering how little blood there is in his corpse when we found him. They carried his corpse on a fast-moving wagon, and then they threw it onto the road."

Lanric wore an expression of disgust. "Drained him of his blood? What sick bastard would do such a thing?" he exclaimed. "I do not know. Mad doktors, cults, vampires….eh. I hope those were mad doktors. If it were vampires or cults, we will be seeing witch hunters on our streets come morrow," Giselbert grimly stated. "Dark tidings all around."

"What do you propose we do next?"

"I can think of two things to do, that is, assuming that the murderers are hired killers. First, we will find the wagon, and the hired killers involved in this murder, and second, we find the person who hired them."

"So, go to the Town Hall, find records on this Ludwig person, come up with a list of suspect. We can do that, not a problem. Finding the wagon, however, will be a pain. If what you said is true, the hitmen will most likely have disposed of the wagon and are laying low until the appointed date of payment, if they have not collected their payment already. Besides, there are many wagons around here, especially in the Market and Docks District. They may not even need to dispose of anything, just return it to the original owners, assuming that they stole the vehicle."

"I highly doubt it. You can't return a wagon that has splashes of bloodstains on it," Giselbert pointed out. "Bloodstains?" asked Lanric, "Whatever gave you the idea."

"I did say they killed him and drained his blood on the wagon, didn't I?" replied Giselbert.

"Point taken."

"I see three places to get the vehicle out of sight," Giselbert said. "Either they took a detour back to the Docks District and dump it into the river or..."

"What do you mean 'or'? It is a pretty obvious thing to do with a bloody wagon."

"With Morrslieb so high up in the sky, a barrelling wagon will attract attention. It may be inconvenient to return to the Docks District and they had to hide the wagon somewhere inconspicuous in the city. To get there, they will take the least populated route exiting Manaan St."

"And how are we supposed to find that...Oh, right, the Census Reports."

Giselbert nodded.

"You said there are three places to get the vehicle out of sight. What's the third place?" pressed Lanric Schwart. "Outside the town of course, if they risk the South Gate," Giselbert replied. "We ask the garrison stationed at the South Gate if they saw a wagon barreling by, and if it was once or twice they saw that wagon. Then we ask if they could see the occupants, and if two of them are of a certain height?"

"What do you mean certain height?"

"You tell me. You have the measuring tape. Take the distance between the footsteps and we can start guessing. If the answer is an affirmative, we can ask for more description."

"And if the hitmen did not return?"

"They will lose themselves in Beeckerhoven, Oldenditz or Grafenrich (8). If they lose themselves in Oldenditz, we can assume that the wagon was disposed of in the nearby Silver Hills. Else, we assume that they disposed of the wagon in the woods..."

"Are you suggesting risking beastmen, mutants and what else to find that wagon?" Lanric paled. "We let Emmanuel decide on that one," shrugged Giselbert. "Leave no stone unturned, you know?"

"Why not the refugee camp just outside?"

"Too crowded. Too much attention. No space to move a wagon beyond the road."

"Fair enough, I suppose," Lanric said as he produced a measuring tape from his pocket. "I will take measurements. And after we are done..."

A loud growl could be heard. Giselbert shuffled uncomfortably as he averted his gaze. Lanric grinned, "We see if we can get you something to eat."

* * *

It was midday when the pair reached the Market District. Seeing that they had to pass by the crime scene along the way, they took the opportunity to interview the townspeople living along Manaan St. All they had learned from the witnesses was that they heard the sound of horses and wheels in the dead of the night, nothing they didn't already know.

The wails of doom and the voices of hagglers greeted the pair of watchmen as they entered the Market District, the centre of trade of Salzenmund. Despite the noises, the Market District was not doing well. Lanric and Giselbert passed by a mere five merchant stalls. They could count only half a dozen shops still opened. Most of the participants of the market were the servants and the wives of the rich, for only they could afford to purchase the increasingly scarce, and increasingly expensive, foodstuff in the market. A rather large number of beggars loitered on the streets, pestering any passerby with, "Some pence for the poor? Some pence for the poor?" Their begging was partially drowned by the wails of doom, despair and pleas of penance by a few doomsayers and flagellant bands, occupying highly visible corners of the streets. Giselbert Gottschalk and Lanric Schwart were sidetracked time and again as they chased down a few thieves and attempted to dislodge some of the more disruptive flagellants from their corners.

"You know what I truly hate about that last war we had?" said Lanric. "Getting all these madmen screaming about how 'The End is Nigh!' and all that. We already had enough trouble without having to deal with all these 'Doomy Doom of Dooms!'"

Giselbert simply smirked in reply as he tugged on the linked manacles, the shackles of the petty thieves. The thieves were a sorry lot, filthy skeletal figures in tattered clothes. Slum-born, just like him. Giselbert felt pity for them. He could empathise with their plight. Even he was hard pressed to acquire a decent meal for himself and his Mother. "Crime is crime, though," he thought as he shook his head sadly. He tugged at the chains, leading the petty criminals back to the headquarters.

The Watch headquarters was a tall but narrow building on the left-most side of an apartment block. A signboard featuring Nordland's coat of arms was the only indication that this was the headquarters. Giselbert Gottschalk stood before the building, staring uneasily at the sign, hesitant to set foot into the premise. "Oh, come on, Gis. I know the Captain is a swine, but we will be gone right after we give our reports," said Lanric. Giselbert shrugged and sighed and followed his partner through the door, dragging their 'haul' behind them.

The headquarters interior was a large, open chamber. The clerk was seated right in front of the entrance. Behind him were neatly arranged tables, each for every watchman. There were two doors to the right. The one in front opened up to stairways, the ascending steps led to the Captain's office, while the descending steps led to the Holding Cells in the basement. The door to the back was the Quartermaster's, where the watchmen acquired their gear. The walls of the chamber were dull and dirty, with some paint peeling off. The chamber felt drafty due to the broken windows and the damaged roof.

"Ah, you are back, Giselbert and Lanric," said the clerk, an old man with white, coarse beard. "And I see you took your sweet time...chasing thieves when there is a mystery to solve. The Captain will be displeased." Lanric strode to the clerk's desk. He leaned forward, forearm on the desk, looked at the clerk in the eye and grinned, "So, you are going to report us for being late." The clerk laughed aloud, "Of course not! I rather prefer to limit my 'exposure' to him to his entrance and exit!"

"A sight to sore the eyes, y'know?" he guffawed as he stood up and imitated a fat man walking comically past the desk, pointing at his belly all the while. Lanric and Julius laughed as they continuously poked fun at their Captain, ignored by the watchmen shuffling about behind them.

"Right, so, should I get those thieves to the cells?" the clerk gestured at the thieves behind Giselbert. "Obviously, Julius."

Julius nodded as he turned around and shouted, "Oi! We have a trio of thieves to be sent to the Holding Cells!" Giselbert turned to look at the sullen group behind him with pitying eyes. The Holding Cells were notoriously cold, especially at night.

After the thieves were led down to the dungeon by a stern-looking watchman, Lanric spoke to Julius again, "Right, Julius. There is another reason why we came here. Gis here seem to have an idea about what is going on." Julius arched his eyebrow. He picked up a blank parchment and inked his quill. "Go on, Gis," Lanric encouraged the sullen Giselbert to report his deductions.

After about five minutes spent on regurgitation, Julius sealed the parchment and left it in the box behind him. The box had the word 'Captain' written on it. "As an extra, I will also pass the...suggestion...on how we are going to look for that wagon to Emmanuel. So, what are you still standing here for? We don't have forever, you know."

Lanric cheekily salute as he turned around and left the building. Giselbert, however, stayed put. "Are there reports from the physician?" he inquired. "Physician? I did not hear anything about anyone sent to a physician. Why, are you sick?" Giselbert grumbled as he turned to leave. All watchmen, as decreed by the Captain, were required to report their activities to the clerk. If the clerk knew nothing about Ludwig being sent to the physician, then it meant that the corpse did not reach the physician. Hansel had probably disposed of the body.

* * *

It was but a five minutes' walk to the Town Hall. The Town Hall had a very distinct look, a broad rectangular three-storied building with a domed roof. There were exactly twelve steps leading up to the gate into the premise. The Town Hall was situated to the north of the Town Square, which was currently occupied by mobs of flagellants and doomsayers. The only other buildings around the Town Hall were the Temple of Ulric and the Temple of Sigmar, each of which were located to the east and the west side of the Square respectively.

The mailboxes before the steps were crowded by men and women of various sizes, age and stature, all of whom were either wailing, sighing or laughing. Giselbert and Lanric had to push their way through the crowd to reach the entrance.

The lobby of the Town Hall looked like an oversized common room of most houses. Finely crafted furniture was neatly arranged in the lobby. Doors, leading to various departments and offices, lined the walls. The Burgomeister's (4) Office was located on the third floor and was easily identified, as it had the nicest door. The largest door, on the ground floor, led into the Council Chamber.

One of the benches was occupied by a random mish-mash of people. Amongst them were merchants, guild representatives, landowners, nobles and etc. With a glance at their trembling postures and their knitted eyebrows, Giselbert could easily guess their purposes here. However, he had no interest in digging further. Leave the rich to their petty squabbles; he had more pressing matters to attend to.

The pair of watchmen took a left turn, ignoring the irate, grumbling men, and entered the Records Room. The Records Room was the largest and the dustiest chamber of the Town hall, occupying three stories and two basements, all of which were filled with bookshelves and indices. Many archivists, scribes and clerks, their numbers enough to form a regiment, worked in this chamber, organizing records, writing new entries, storing meeting minutes and etc. Every change of address, every domestic dispute, every charges and every account, almost anything that has happened in Salzenmund, except guild matters, were recorded and stored here. If there was any place to find the Census Reports and the life history of Ludwig Bachmeier, it would be here.

Giselbert and Lanric walked up to the clerk behind a long table (which stretched across the lobby's width), a balding short man whose face was riddled with wrinkles. The clerk was immersed in his scribbling. Lanric cleared his throat to capture the clerk's attention. Upon seeing the clerk looking up and frowning at him, Lanric then asked, "We would like the Census Reports and any records of Ludwig Bachmeier. Familial history, properties, past legal disputes, all of it!" The clerk returned his quill back to its ink bottle, adjusted his collar and asked, "Ah can get you the Census Report. On the records of Ludwig Bachmeier, on the other hand, yer realise that records of any one person are strictly confidential. Did yer have clearance for..." "Ludwig was murdered. His corpse was found in Manaan St.," Lanric interrupted. The clerk sat silent for a moment to digest all that Lanric had told him. He then grunted and shouted Lanric's request to the 'army' of scribes and clerks scribbling on their dusty tomes and ragged scrolls. He also added that the 'Boys in Uniform' made the request. The scribes and clerks hurriedly flipped through their indices and searched the shelves. From the looks of things, there will be many papers relating to the subject of the Ludwig Bachmeiers and the Bachmeiers in general. "Well, get on in then. Yer not allowed to take these records out of the Records Room. I hope yer can read, heh heh," the clerk chuckled as he opened the small grilled gate that led into the cavernous chamber.

"Oh boy. This is going to take a long while," Lanric whispered to Giselbert. Giselbert grunted and decided to wander about.

* * *

Night has fallen. Once again, Morrslieb hung high in the sky, grinning wickedly at the town below. For the common folk, this was an ill omen. However, for the flagellants, it was a sign of the End Times.

A lone flagellant walked wearily along the back alleys of the Market District. His face was heavily scarred, his manic eyes sneaking glances at every shadow. His once-strong and healthy body was now mutilated, battered and wasted. He was wearing parchments carrying prayers to Sigmar, bound together by chains. In his hand was a bloodied flail, which he used to flog himself in an attempt to cleanse his battered body of his sins and impurity.

The flagellant Benjamin used to be a travelling merchant. He was an unscrupulous scoundrel who would frequently cheat his clients. His silver tongue had brought him great fortune, and he thought it would last.

And then it all came crashing down. He could remember it clearly, even though it had happened almost fifteen years ago. At that time, Morrslieb had eclipsed Mannslieb, an omen of an imminent Chaos Incursion from the Northern Wastes. At the time, he never believed in the existence of the Dark Gods. He thought it had all been hogwash and superstition and fairy tales told by the priests to scare the common folk into piety.

At the time, he joined a caravan which was on the way to Middenheim. It was supposed to be a routine journey; go to the City of the White Wolf, attempt to pass off the fake arms and armour for authentic Nordland Silversmith's Guild forge-works and earn a tidy profit. What happened instead ended that routine.

Hordes of creatures, half-men and half-beasts, burst out from the Drakwald Forest. In their guttural tongue, they roared fierce battle-cries. The mutant attack caught them unaware. With blade, claws, brute force and blasphemous spells, they slaughtered every single participant of the caravan: men, women, children, even his own mercenaries. The creatures decimated the caravan, pillaged everything, including his forged armour and arms, and then disappeared into the woods. Only he survived, left for dead under the burning wreckage.

It was all too much for him. In an instant, he had lost his livelihood, his friends, his fortune, and almost his own life. He lost it all; everything had been stolen from him by the unbearable horrors that lurked the woods. He wandered the wilderness, more husk than man, and eventually he was found by a flagellant band and was accepted him as one of their own.

In those years he had wandered with the flagellants, he found an answer to what had happened to him. The beastmen were but heralds of the End Times, a sign to the coming tide of darkness, destruction and madness. They were sent by the Gods themselves to punish them for their sins and impurity. Only by casting aside their former, impure selves and repent for their sins would their souls be saved.

And now, they had come to Salzenmund, to spread the word. The common folk believed that they had beaten Archaon's Horde, that victory was theirs, that the storm was over! They were wrong. The Everchosen's incursion was only a prelude to a greater war. More will come, and they will keep coming until all of the Empire, and the rest of the Old World, is but a domain of mutation, madness and damnation. Only by repenting for their sins could they be saved!

Benjamin trod wearily through the alleyway, lashing himself with every step. He had chosen to separate from his Brothers, so that he may spread the message further. Not all has heard the message. For the sake of their souls, he must wander away from his Brothers and seek them out. They must hear his word and repent!

In his quest, he came upon a masked man in purple. The man walked towards him, unsheathing a wicked sword, black, slender and serrated. The sword was terrible in its beauty, and could not possibly be made by human hands. Benjamin turned back, only to find his escape path blocked by two more masked figures. They were bearing daggers black, also slender and serrated. Looking around, he could find no means of escaping. He realised that his doom had come.

Benjamin lifted his chains and charged at his attackers. He frothed and shouted, "Doom! Doom has come!"

**Glossary:**

(1) Sigmar: Sigmar Heldenhammer was the deified first Emperor and the founder of the Empire. The Imperial Calendar (whose starting date marked the day of Sigmar's coronation as Emperor) placed his birth at I.C.-30 in what was now Reikland to the Unberogen tribe, his birth marked by the appearance of the Twin-Tailed Comet. It was believed that when he was 15, he rescued the dwarf King Kurgan Ironbeard from the orcs. In gratitude, Kurgan Ironbeard gifted to Sigmar the runic warhammer, Ghal Maraz, which was wielded by every Emperor since. Sigmar was credited with the uniting of the various bickering tribes, along with the scouring of the beastmen menace from the wildlands which would become the Empire, as well as leading the armies of men to victory in the First Battle of Black Fire Pass, against the orcs, I.C.-1.

As Emperor, he has defended the Empire against the necromancer Nagash and the hordes of the first recorded Everchosen of Chaos, Morkar, as well as leading the Empire towards prosperity. After fifty years of rulership, he abdicated the throne and set off to the World's Edge Mountain, to the east, for reasons unknown.

Twenty years after, a 'wild-eyed friar' Johann Helstrum, appeared, claiming that Sigmar was crowned by Ulric. The idea proved popular enough that Johann was elevated as the first high priest of the Cult of Sigmar, which would eventually become the dominant religion of the Empire.

The Cult of Sigmar preached unity, loyalty to the Emperor and to root out and destroy the greenskin (which included the orcs and goblins), the witch and the servants of Chaos.

(Wikipedia , Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Ed 2: Tome of Salvation Chapter II: Old World Cults, The Cult of Sigmar, page 55)

(2) Taal: The Cult of Taal and Rhya were amongst the oldest cults in recorded history. Taal represented the power and majesty of nature, while Rhya (his wife) represented the nurturing side of nature. The cult believed in the sanctity of nature and abhorred the unnatural i.e. mutants and Chaos.

(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Ed 2: Tome of Salvation Chapter II: Old World Cults, The Cult of Taal and Rhya, page 61)

(3) Storm of Chaos: I.C. 2522, during the reign of the incumbent Emperor Karl Franz, Archaon the Lord of End Times, an Everchosen of Chaos, led the host of Chaos Undivided through the lands of northern Kislev and into the Empire, overrunning the province of Ostland and forcing the combined armies of Nordland, Hochland and Middenland into retreat to the fortified city of Middenheim, where they held for 62 days. On the 62nd day, the armies of the Emperor Karl Franz and Valten, Chosen of Sigmar, joined the battle in the village of Sokh. After the fourth day of this battle, the near-defeat in the hands of Valten, the betrayal of the orcs and the arrival of the undead army of the Vampire Count Mannfred von Carstein of Sylvania forced the wounded Archaon to withdraw, marking the end of the Storm of Chaos.

Archaon still lived and it was feared that the next Great War of Chaos will come sooner rather than later.

(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Ed 2: Sigmar's Heirs Chapter II: History of the Empire, Page 18)

(4) Salzenmund politics: Though the capital of Nordland, Salzenmund was a chartered free town, and as such, it governed itself with minimal interference from the incumbent Elector Count Theoderic Gausser. The town was ruled by a council of guild masters and land owners, led by the Burgomeister (the Town Council). Burgomeisters are elected from amongst their number. The incumbent Burgomeister (elected ten times thus far in this story) was Maximilian von Kirscheschlage.

(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Ed 2: Sigmar's Heirs Chapter VI: The Grand Provinces, Nordland, Salzenmund, Page 67)


	3. Chapter 2

**3/2/2013: **Some proofreading done. Had sinking feeling I missed something. If found, please send me a PM.

**Chapter 2: The Flagellant's Wail**

"Right, so, what do you think?" asked Lanric while flipping through a court report. Giselbert stayed silent, eyebrows knitted and face 'decorated' with ink-prints, engrossed with a legal document (and sneaking glances at an opened Reikspiel dictionary on his table occasionally). After a while, he replied with a monotone, "Well...that might be possible...from the looks of things...and from what I could read here and some other records..."

The two watchmen were going through volumes of paperwork in the Records Room. Their helmets lay on the side of the table. Lanric's hair was neatly combed, but pressed down. Giselbert's, however, was a great mess. He had the look of someone who hadn't groomed himself for years. The room was dimly lit by oil lamps. Most of the archivists, clerks and scribes had already left. Without the sound of scribbling and flipping, the cavernous Records Room was eerily quiet. The only sound were those of Giselbert and Lanric conversing and of flipping pages and shifting paperwork.

"Oi! Are yer done yet, boys?" the clerk-receptionist's shout echoed. Lanric growled, "For the dozenth time, NO!" "Be quick 'ready! Didn't ya hear? Ze Records Room be haunted!" the clerk shouted back. "If you stop asking us whether we are done every couple minutes, we will be done sooner!" Lanric argued, mustering as much irritation as he could to hurl at the clerk.

The clerk did not argue back. Lanric grumbled as he turned back to his partner. Giselbert buried his face in a parchment, ignoring the earlier commotion. Lanric stared at Giselbert, who continued to ignore him, preferring to peruse the paperwork instead. The silence was almost total, only broken whenever Giselbert retrieved another parchment or book to read. Lanric sighed for a moment, and then spoke, "Anyway, as I figured out, whoever killed Ludwig has to be someone rich and powerful. You don't sic three seasoned killers on some poor old man who lives alone in some abandoned section of the town just because he owes you a lot of money."

"I do not know about 'rich', Lanric," replied Giselbert, his eyes never leaving his report. He placed the parchment on top of a tall stack of papers and retrieved another parchment, "You don't exactly need a lot of money to be powerful. Remember that one time we busted this smuggling ring a year ago?" "Hmmm," Lanric mumbled as he picked up one a scroll and unrolled it. "So, think that this Adolf guy may be a suspect?" he asked as he studied a scroll. "Unlikely. If Adolf wants to settle that little spat they had over their little price war, he wouldn't have allowed Ludwig's body to be dumped in the middle of a main road with a sigil on his forehead. "Whoever the culprit is, he wants to send a message. Maybe something along the lines of "Pay your debts or die like this man!" or something. Adolf does not fit that profile."

Giselbert paused. He lowered the parchment. He wore a thoughtful look as he lifted his head and stared at the tall, dark ceiling. "Wait, that doesn't sound right," he uttered. "I don't see why the culprits would drain Ludwig's blood if it were about money. I still say, this might be the work of some mad doktor."

"And no, I am not biased!"

"But think about it this way, Gis. What if we have someone powerful who took offense with Ludwig not repaying his debts AND happens to be friends or family with a mad doktor?" Lanric defended his reasoning and provided an alternate theory. "I heard ya over there, numbnuts! No, I am not going to get yer any information about mad doktors! Come back tomorrow!" shouted the clerk again. "SHUT UP!" Giselbert and Lanric yelled in unison.

The watchmen duo had spent over nine hours in the Records Room. They did not exactly spend all the time reading however. Halfway through, the duo nodded off. Also, they spent far more time discussing and arguing over motives and their suspects list. Moreover, Giselbert wasn't in a hurry to return to the headquarters. As such, their session in the Records Room had lengthened needlessly, much to the clerk's chagrin.

However, their time in the Records Room was fruitful. Firstly, with the help of the Census Report, they were able to chart possible routes and destinations the wagon could have taken, assuming that the wagon did not leave town and the killers had vested interest in exiting Manaan St. as soon as possible. Moreover, they had learnt more about Ludwig Bachmeier. Ludwig Bachmeier was once the head of the Bachmeier Trading Company. However, the company had been on a slow decline for three decades (or so Lanric believed, having read the accounting documents), and had gone bankrupt ten years ago, just before the Storm of Chaos started. The watchmen learnt of the Bachmeier financial difficulties, disputes with the First Bank of Altdorf (a very prosperous bank based in the Imperial capital of Altdorf) over debts, quarrels with several individuals in regards to trade agreements and other business matters, allegations of involvement with a smuggling ring and etc. This allowed them to form theories on who would have wanted Ludwig dead, and why.

After much time discussing and debating, both watchmen agreed that whoever killed Ludwig was a powerful person, or had connections with powerful persons. They also agreed that a doktor with a keen interest in blood was involved and believed that the sigil belonged to some criminal group (bringing up the possibility that the hitmen were members of this group and were thus unlikely to flee from Salzenmund for any extended period of time). A criminal group would have reasons to kill someone over a debt and would publicly display a corpse with a sigil to 'send a message'. A doktor, either sponsored, or merely an acquaintance, might had seen an opportunity and tagged along. They drafted a list of friends, associates and business partners of Ludwig (some of which were acquired by cross-referencing the routes and destinations acquired earlier), giving them a list of suspects and possible founts of information. Their work in the Records Room was done…for the time being.

The two watchmen opened the gate to exit the chamber of the Records Room. The clerk was seen shaking his fist at them as they exited the premise. Giselbert ignored him, engrossed in his thoughts, while Lanric shook his fist back at the clerk. The two watchmen wearily lumbered across the lobby.

They paused. Something out of ordinary was going on. They could hear shouts and wail coming from the outside, in the Town Square. The two watchmen hurried to the exit and were greeted by the sight of doomsayers and flagellants parading.

"That is strange," Lanric spoke, sounding surprised. "I thought the flagellants would be sleeping by now." Giselbert nodded. He too had dealt with the flagellants and the doomsayers long enough to know that they usually take the night off. "Something must have spooked them."

The flagellants and doomsayers were gathered in numbers greater than they had ever seen. They were flogging themselves, screaming, shouting and furiously chanting verses from the prayerbook Deus Sigmar. It seemed as if every flagellant and doomsayer currently in Salzenmund had gathered in the Town Square. Watching them was an ocean of townspeople, wearing the face of dread, irritation, frustration and annoyance. "Doom! Witness the doom that has befallen our Brother! There is no hope! Doom is already here! REPENT! REPENT!" a flagellant roared out in a fit of frenzy, his eyes rolling back as spit flew from between his crooked teeth.

"Ulric's blood! What is going on?" Lanric muttered. Giselbert continued to watch the spectacle silently. It didn't take him long to identify what had roused the flagellant and doomsayer mob. The flagellants were parading around a wasted, limp person, chained to a wooden beam. His eyes were open but lifeless. There were brown, stained and weather-beaten parchments covering his mostly naked figure. The parchments were covered in words and bore the image of the Twin Tailed Comet. His chest, however, was bared. There were broken chains attached to torn paper in place of the parchment, baring a nasty stab wound. "A flagellant's corpse," thought Giselbert. However, what really drew Giselbert's notice was the clawed hand sigil (as he had come to name it) etched quite clearly across its face. The flagellant was another victim!

Giselbert turned to look at Lanric and directed his fullest attention to the flagellant's corpse. Giselbert then looked back at the flagellant mob. His trembling hand reached for his hip flask. Just as his gloved hand almost touched his hip flask, he stopped. He remembered that he did not replenish his supply of vodka. Giselbert sighed, stashed his hip flask into his belt and walked down the steps. "Where are you going? Gis?" Lanric cried out to his partner. "Performing my duty as a watchman, Lanric," Giselbert answered grimly. "That sodding hatter!" Lanric cursed as he followed his partner. Attempting to get the flagellants' cooperation was akin to stirring up a hornet's nest, but he can't let his partner walk into the fire by himself.

"Excuse me, Sirs!" Giselbert shouted as he approached the three flagellants carrying the wooden beam. He pointed towards the gruesome trophy and stated his request clearly, "That corpse belongs to a murder victim. Would you kindly hand him over to us?" The flagellants looked at Giselbert and then Lanric with their wild eyes. Then, with a fit of laughter, they replied, "Murder? Murder? Is that what you call doom these days?" Giselbert took a deep breath and then said with a deeper voice, "Yes, yes. Murder. Doom. Whatever. This man, I believe you had realised, is dead. Murdered, in fact. Look, he has a stab wound on him. Hand him over to us and we can get around working on the murderers' arrest." The three flagellants laughed again. "What good will that do? The killers are shadows! Shadows of doom! Doom is stalking this town! It has found our Brother and soon, it will find all of you! ALL OF YOU!" the flagellant bellowed. The chattering townspeople of Salzenmund were suddenly silent. Giselbert realized that the flagellant was not only addressing to him, but to everyone present. "Look here. Just hand over the corpse…." Giselbert pressed his request. The flagellants ignored him and started shouting fitfully, "DOOM! DOOM HAS CLAIMED OUR BROTHER! IT WILL CLAIM ALL! REPENT FOR YOUR SINS, FOR DOOM HAS COME! REPENT! REPENT!"

Lanric stepped forward and held the flagellant on the shoulder, "Look, yes, doom has come, maybe. But if you let us examine that corpse, doom may just be averted." Lanric was shoved back violently. "AVERTING DOOM? YOU CANNOT STOP DOOM! REPENT, YER HERETIC! YOU TRY TO TAKE THE SIGN! YOU TRY TO SILENCE THE TRUTH! REPENT! REPENT!" the now frothing flagellant chastised Lanric. Another flagellant walked towards Lanric, his flail held high. Giselbert swiftly drew his sword and intercepted the flail, before bringing his fist into the flagellant's jawbone. The flagellant's flail flew from his hand. "DOOM! DOOM HAS…OOOF!" cried another flagellant, further in the crowd, as his skull was split by the soaring flail. "Get up and draw your sword, Lanric! This is getting out of hand!" Giselbert instructed as he stood on guard.

* * *

Lanric and Giselbert, weapons drawn, slowly retreated up the steps of the Town Hall. The frothing, frenzied mass of flagellants were relentlessly advancing at them, brandishing their flails, chains, lashes and cat-o-nine-tails, threatening to overwhelm the beleaguered watchmen with sheer numbers.

Chants of "REPENT! REPENT! REPENT!" resonated across the Town Square. Giselbert tripped one of the charging flagellants and brought his left foot hard into his back. He then sidestepped as another flagellant attempted to strike him from behind, elbowing the flagellant's nose in retaliation. The flagellant groaned as he collapsed. Giselbert turned around as another flagellant approached, but was too slow to intercept the strike which had dented his helmet. Giselbert fell to his knees as his helmet rung. He feebly lifted his sword to fend off the frenzied attacks of the flagellant with one hand while clutching his head with another, trying to regain his bearings. Two more flagellants were swiftly closing in. Lanric quickly lashed out at the flagellant currently attacking Giselbert, cutting his cheeks, and then kicked him in the gut, sending him tumbling down the stairs. The watchman warded off the blows from the other two flagellants. "Gis! I have to say, you are a thrice-cursed idiot!" Lanric swore as he fended off a strike coming for his left.

Suddenly, one of the unhinged flagellants received a stone to the skull. "LEAVE THEM ALONE, YOU LUNATICS!" a woman amongst the crowd cried out. "YEAH, LEAVE THEM ALONE!" "FLAGELLANTS GET OUT!" Some of them even brandished brooms, wooden rods, clubs, rolling pins, bottles, furniture, anything that wasn't nailed to the ground and charged the flagellant. "STAND BACK, YOU FOUL HERETICS!" another group of townspeople came to reinforce the flagellants, stoning those trying to defend the watchmen and brandishing their own improvised weapons. "DID YOU NOT HEAR THEM? THEY WERE TRYING TO SILENCE THE TRUTH!" "REPENT!" While they clashed, the wealthy and the noble, along with their entourage of escorts, hastily retreated to their homes.

In an instant, the town was divided. Months of fear, uncertainty, anxiety, frustration and irritation ignited into a fierce conflagration. The area swiftly turned into a field of anarchy. Sigmarite and Ulrican priests left their sanctuaries, led by their respective head priests. Armed with prayers and hammers and axes, the holy men of the Empire attempted to disperse the rioters, to no avail. The Salzenmund Watch mobilised to contain the situation.

Giselbert and Lanric fought their way to join the watchmen already on scene. Captain Josef Aushwitz was barking orders and gesturing wildly as the watchmen joined their comrades. The Captain turned to the approaching watchmen and glowered fiercely at them, his eyes so wide it looked as though it would pop out of his sockets. "You idiots!" Captain Josef Aushwitz roared at the two bruised watchmen, his spittle flying. "Look at what you had done!" he gestured at the clashing townspeople and flagellants, tussling with watchmen and priests. "I knew you are trouble, you damned slum-born!" "Look, Captain. I…." Giselbert desperately tried to explain. However, he was interrupted by the sound of windows shattering.

Some shops were being broken into. A few buildings were being set ablaze. The poor, the starving and the disenfranchised had taken the opportunity to loot and plunder. "Shut yer filthy mouth! Go and rein in your lot!" Captain Aushwitz roared. "Sir? Only us two? Are we receiving help?" Lanric asked anxiously. The Captain glared at Lanric, and then at Giselbert. He shouted, "What! You expect help? We already have our hands full trying to deal with the situation in the Market District!"

"Now go and do something about your kind, Giselbert!"

Giselbert sighed, nodded and hurried to the scene, closely followed by the now-shaking Lanric.

Half the town was on fire. The Salzenmund Watch, with the support of the priests, did their best to disperse the rioters and the looters, but they were quickly losing control due to their lack of manpower. Giselbert and Lanric subdued a pair of youths in worn clothes and were quickly going for a muscular brute, now running off with a bourgeois-looking closet. "Get these uncouth animals out of my house!" a noble shouted at the top of his lungs from the tallest spire of his mansion just a few walks away.

Suddenly, a loud horn was heard. Men in chainmail, armed with halberds and flintlock muskets, the local garrison, had arrived.

Shouts, screams and slogan-chanting were answered with threats, catechism, violence and gunshots. The riot continued throughout the night before the combined forces of the Salzenmund Watch, the Provincial Army and the priesthood could quell the situation. Many had died, many more wounded. Not even the watchmen and the Provincial Army were spared from casualties.

Giselbert lay down on the side of the street while Lanric sat against the wall, drained and exhausted. Giselbert had bloody lips and bruised eyes. His tattered leather jack was stained with blood, some his opponents' and some his own. His helmet lay on the ground above his head, chipped and misshapen. Lanric too, suffered similar injuries, though his helmet was mostly intact. Around them were smoking buildings, wreckage, rubbish, the subdued and the dead. "Gis, you are one unlucky charm. You know that?" Lanric croaked as he looked disapproving at the limp Giselbert. "Oh, shut up," Giselbert groaned.

Feeling a shadow looming over him, Giselbert opened his eyes and found a very livid Captain Josef Aushwitz before him. Captain Josef Aushwitz's face was flushed, his veins popping and throbbing on his cheeks and forehead. His lips curled into a fierce growl.

"I know you are trouble ever since I saw you!" he hissed. "Arrest him!"

Two watchmen quickly closed in, handcuffed the slum-born watchman and dragged him before he could react. "Wait, Captain…" Giselbert opened his mouth, and was punched in the jaw. "SILENCE!" one of the watchmen handling him, a bearded and scarred man, roared at him. "Captain…" Lanric got up to defend his partner. "Look, he…" "You keep quiet, Lanric!" the Captain glowered at Lanric. "Or I will have you thrown into the same cell as this filth!"

"I am afraid you will have to arrest me, Captain," said Lanric, his steely eyes glaring at Josef. Josef glared back, his cheeks puffed out as he ground his teeth.

"Arrest this fool and remove him from my sights!"

* * *

The sun rose, signalling the end of a long and turbulent night. However, its gentle rays brought little comfort to the surviving townspeople of Salzenmund. Without the shroud of darkness, the people of Salzenmund were made painfully aware of the ruination of their town by their own hands. Amidst the smoke and ruins lay a burning pyre, inside which corpses were piled as kindling to the flames. A man in a black cloak and cowl, gaunt and thin, stood before the pyre, watching impassively as the flames consumed the corpses. He stuck his notched, weather-beaten scythe into the loose cobblestone and held out a prayerbook in his bony hand. He bit his thin, pale lips as he flipped the pages of the old tome, his grey eyes scanning the pages searchingly. His fingers stopped and his thin lips curled. Solemn words poured forth as he performed the last rites upon the unfortunate corpses.

The priest of Morr (the god of death and dreams) was so engrossed in his grim duty that he failed to notice a watchman hurling a corpse into a burning pyre. Or perhaps, he did, but chose to ignore him. The watchman, a young thin man, about the same age as Giselbert and Lanric, brushed his leather jack as he wordlessly returned to his grim task. He walked towards another of the broken corpses and heaved it over his shoulder. His face was impassive, regarding the corpse he bore with indifference. Only the beads of sweat rolling down his thin face betrayed his weariness.

Another watchman emerged from an alleyway opposite the street. The watchman was a tall, powerfully built man, his hard face and chiselled jaw encased in a majestic mane. However, he looked pale, his look of horror out of place on his leonine face. He looked around the street frantically until he found the young watchman. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted loudly, "Oi! Johannes!"

Johannes stopped at his tracks. The Morrian priest continued chanting. The younger watchman turned to the senior, leonine watchman and regarded him with an indifferent look. "What is it, Herr Marx?" he asked in a monotone. Herr Marx did not seem bothered by his younger charge's indifference. He pointed into the alleyway and shouted back, "C'mere! You need to see this!"

"Give me a moment to burn this corpse, and I will get back to you," Johannes stated and disposed of the corpse.

Johannes jogged after his senior. As soon as he reached Herr Marx, he bent over and panted. He inhaled deeply and inquired, "What is it you wanted to show me, Herr Marx?" As he asked, his blue eyes looked into the alleyway. What he saw made him tense and his legs trembled. His skin bore an unhealthy pallor as he covered his nose and mouth, gagging as he looked away.

* * *

Morning had dawned upon the port town of Neues Ermskrank (1), yet the warm morning did nothing to dispel the grim atmosphere that had befallen the port town. The Town Square was alight with the flames of burning heretics. The people of Neues Ermskrank jeered and booed at the burning heretic and shouted praises to Sigmar, the patron god of the Empire. However, despite such violent displays, their faces were riddled with dread and trepidation.

Standing with the townspeople of Neues Ermskrank were the brave, hard men of the Nordland Provincial Army. The halberdiers and handgunners watched as the heretics burned to ashes. They wore hard, grim faces, but the quivering of their lips and the fluttering of their eyes betrayed their unease.

The soldiers of Nordland were not unnerved by the horrific retribution which has fallen upon the vile snakes. They bore witness to such displays before, and they had taken part in several burnings of their own. They averted their eyes and inched away ever so slowly, trying their best not to divert any unwanted attention from the thing that stood amongst them.

The terrible creature that inspired such dread wore a wide-brimmed buckled hat and a black-as-pitch cloak. This thing was His Most Holy Inquisitor, a Templar of Sigmar, or much better known as a witch hunter. However, their reactions belied the creature's appearance. The creature was not large with red eyes and fangs that dripped venom, no, none of that. It does not even look like a large, imposing man like their sergeant. Rather, the witch hunter was petite, diminutive.

The witch hunter was utterly still, watching silently as the heretics wailed and screamed and writhe upon their stakes. Only its hair, a golden bundle, showed any movement, swaying against the wind. The blazing flames could not lift the veil that shrouded its face, though its green eyes gleamed to the light, gleaming like Morrslieb itself. Its posture was straight, as unyielding as ancient coniferous trees. This silence, this stillness, unnerved the soldiers that stood with it.

Standing beside the creature was a massive behemoth, which towered over the halberdiers and the handgunners of the Nordland Provincial Army. The behemoth was bald and heavily scarred, some of which were apparently inflicted by wounds that ought to have killed him twice over. Draped on his massive form was a black chainmail robe, with yellow trimming, and upon the armoured robe was a well-worn and very ornate steel breastplate with a high gorget, which reached his nose. If there were any doubt of his identity, it were dispelled by the massive warhammer hanging on his back, completely forged out of steel, its head crafted to resemble His Most Holy Icon, the Twin Tailed Comet.

This mighty figure was the warrior priest of the Order of the Silver Hammer.

The warrior priest wore a hard, stony expression as he gazed upon the burning heretics. His lips mumbled subtly as he whispered prayers, a simple wish that the heretics would finally see the error of their ways and repent. He could feel eyes upon him and glanced around. The handgunners and the halberdiers were giving him an almost pleading look. He needed not see more. He knew what they desired from this humble servant of Sigmar.

"Sister Fruehauf," he spoke slowly and softly, consciously controlling his volume. The witch hunter remained still. The warrior priest rubbed the back of his bald head and sighed. He extended his strong hands towards the witch hunter. The witch hunter's small hands shot out from under her cloak, slapping his fist aside.

The halberdiers blinked. The warrior priest glanced at them. The halberdiers were flushed and struggling to contain the rising laughter. The warrior priest's lips quivered a little.

His half-smile quickly dropped into a frown. He gazed upon the witch hunter again, who was ignoring him in favour of watching the burning stakes. He sighed heavily and asked, "Sister Fruehauf, are you not satisfied?"

The witch hunter kept her silence. After a while, she spoke softly, her voice almost inaudible amidst the jeers of the townspeople. Yet, the few halberdiers who could hear her recoiled, their faces the mask of tortured pain. The warrior priest shrugged. Certainly, her voice was soft, but it was also cold as the winter chill.

"I am not satisfied."

The warrior priest fell silent. He needed not push her, asking her the reason for her dissatisfaction. He needn't ask further, for he had followed the witch hunter for quite a long while. He was with her when she picked up this trail which had led them to the heretics who now burned for their sins. He had been with her as she tracked her prey and hunted them relentlessly. He knew the reason for her dissatisfaction.

"Milady!" a voice called out from behind the two. The witch hunter turned to greet a panting man. The panting messenger leaned against his halberd. The witch hunter watched him, still as usual. The halberdier gazed into the shadow under her hat, and into those baleful green eyes. He stood up, having recovered his breath, and extended his hand, which was clutching a small scroll. "Message for you, Frau Fruehauf," he said, struggling to maintain an expressionless face in a vain attempt to hide his fear. The halberdier winced as he felt the witch hunter's hand brushed his, to pick up the scroll. The halberdier quickly retreated, leaving her to peruse the message. Once done, she pocketed the small scroll under her cloak.

She turned towards the sergeants, who stood alongside her. They half-retreated like scared dogs. The witch hunter regarded them for a moment, and she spoke, her voice soft and icy cold like Kislevite breeze, "Sergeants! Prepare a ferry and supplies to Salzenmund!" "Yes, Frau Fruehauf!" the sergeants saluted and hurried to fulfil her orders.

A sea of grey-metal, blue and yellow parted as she begun her departure. The warrior priest, Brother Gottlieb, snorted and shook his head, wearing a small smile under his gorget. The witch hunter did not show it, but having fought alongside her and advised her for so long, he knew she was eager to depart, to follow this new lead.

**Glossary:**

(1) Neus Ermskrank: Once a fishing village and now a failed port town. It laid host to a series of not-insignificant accidents (one of which saw a locally-built ship capsizing as soon as it left dock), giving it a reputation of being cursed. In this story, the town has since been repurposed as a staging base for the Imperial Navy.

(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 2nd Edition: Sigmar's Heirs: Chapter VI: The Grand Provinces: Nordland, pg 65)


	4. Chapter 3

**14/2/13: **Proofread.

**Chapter 3: Ruins**

The Council Chamber was rather smaller than what most people would have envisioned. The ceilings were low and the long tables, lined on top of gradually ascending steps, were cramped together, lending it an oppressive, claustrophobic atmosphere. In the middle of the front-most row was a desk of finest Laurelorn lumber, which resembled a lectern, looming over the Petitioner's Stand, the circular pavement in the centre of the chamber. This was the Burgomeister's seat, upon which sat a man with a neatly-trimmed goatee and severe eyes, the Burgomeister Maximillian Von Kirscheschlage.

Standing before him for his scrutiny was the belligerent Captain Josef Aushwitz. The captain had done plenty of shouting in his brief career as the Captain of the Salzenmund Watch. However, this was perhaps the first time he was shouted at, by people more powerful than he, an infuriating fact. "How dare they use that tone against me! Did they not realize that if it weren't for my efforts, they wouldn't be sleeping soundly in their homes?" thought Captain Josef Aushwitz angrily as he glared at the Town Councillors bombarding him with reprimands and accusations.

"Look here, Captain Aushwitz," one of the Town Councillors, an old man in green robes, wheezed, as he slouched on his chair, holding his forehead, "We are not interested in your opinions on our slum-dwelling population. We want to know exactly how the riot happened." "As I said, I saw it myself!" the captain insisted loudly, "A 'slum-born' provoked the flagellants and started the riot!" The old Town Councillor frowned in reply.

"Now listen here!" another Town Council member, a thick-set bald and bearded man with glasses perched on his nose, whom Josef recognized as the guild leader of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild, leaned forward and spoke calmly. "We tasked you with performing the inquiries about the riot," the Silversmith's Guildmaster waved towards the exit as he continued, "We told you to go out there, find witnesses and gather their accounts so we may start pinpointing who is to blame, and here you are. Handing over this drivel," the guildmaster tapped his finger at the brown parchment on his desk, the Captain's report, "about how you think this slum-born watchman is somehow responsible for every ill that has befallen the town for the past three years, and how you think every slum-born is a whore, a bastard and a criminal."

"We also recall ordering you to investigate and solve these murder cases and again, you use this same 'sermon' to put the blame squarely on the shoulders of this 'Giselbert Gottschalk'," another Town Councillor, this time, an effeminate and well groomed man, sneered, as he looked upon the captain with contemptuous eyes, "No evidence, no compelling arguments, none of it. And you didn't even bother to extract a confession from this Gottschalk lad. That is the very least you could have done."

"We also receive complaints by a number of your watchmen. They claimed your lieutenant is making a mess of the crime scene," yet another Town Councillor, a fat man, heaped his own criticism on the shaking form of Captain Josef Aushwitz. "I was unable to believe their accusations," his voice grew in volume as he furiously pounded his fist against his desk, "until I saw that man STEPPING all over the bloodstains myself!" His fellow Town Councillors gasped upon hearing the news, before turning their their angry glares towards Captain Aushwitz. Captain Aushwitz, eyes wide like fish's, seethed as he continued listening to this 'undue criticism'.

The effeminate Town Councillor's lips curled into a sneer. He held his chin and waved his arms as he sneered venomously, "I may not be an investigator, but I am certain that bloodstains are considered 'evidence'!"

"Do you think us blind and deaf, Aushwitz?" a Town Councillor in a fancy outfit glared accusingly at the Captain. He removed his monocle, produced a silk handkerchief to clean it, and replace it on the bridge of his nose. He then continued, "We know the Lieutenant is your own son. And we know that in the past three years, you replaced half the Watch with your cronies. It's a miracle the other half had resisted your attempts to lay them off for as long as they did. What are you plotting, Aushwitz?"

"Enough, gentlemen!" the Burgomeister announced loudly, his powerful voice drowning the jeers, sneers and accusations of his fellow Town Councilors, as he raised his arm. Satisfied that his fellow councillors were silenced, he turned his severe eyes towards the captain and said, "Captain Josef Aushwitz, we ordered you to perform your responsibilities as a Salzenmund Watch Captain and you had shown us nothing. Nothing other than you having your own agenda and an utter contempt for your duties."

He stabbed his fingers at the Captain of the Watch, "You had proven yourself a disappointment as compared to your predecessor. We need not remind you about the importance and urgency of your tasks. We will give you two weeks to sort this mess out, or we will have you replaced."

The Burgomeister waved dismissively at the Captain, concluding his ultimatum.

Captain Josef Aushwitz struggled to contain his indignation. After a minute, he took a deep breath, exhaled and bowed as low as his fat belly would allow, "As you ordered, Burgomeister Maximillian." He then turned around to leave the Council Chamber, his watchman's cloak flapping behind him and a stream of curses muttered under his breath.

"If they want a confession, then they will have it!"

* * *

The Holding Cells was a gloomy, moist place. Rainwater from over the years had collected on the cobblestones in large puddles. Mosses were growing all over the walls. Despite the name, there was only one large cell, where all prisoners were caged in.

Giselbert Gottschalk was lying on his sides upon the cold ground. His hair and stubble was caked in blood. There was a large scar under his chin. One of his eyes was bruised. Signs of abuse were plastered all over him under his tattered rags. He breathed laboriously, coughing while shivering to the cold.

The former watchman was feeling very tired, but he was unable to sleep, due to the nature of his cell-mates. His eyes were drooping and his body was aching. His stomach growled very loudly. He hadn't eaten for two days.

A loud creak was heard. Giselbert peered from under his swollen eyelid. The large, bloated form of Captain Josef Aushwitz stood at the cell door, his outrageously-styled moustache quivered furiously, flanked by two watchmen, the very same who dragged him into this cell.

The Captain leered at the former watchman. Giselbert glared back defiantly. The Captain twitched slightly, feeling such fierce gaze lay on his person. "A pity," thought the captain. "A pity that looks can't kill." He grinned, his lips curling to reveal a perfect set of teeth. His cronies cracked their knuckles while he sneered, "So, little vermin, are you ready to talk?"

Giselbert wheezed, "I am not guilty." Josef snorted. The two watchmen strode towards him, grabbed him by the collar and threw him out of the cell. Giselbert clenched his teeth, uttering not a word, as he landed roughly on the cold, unforgiving floor. The cell's door slammed shut. One of the watchmen lifted Giselbert by the shoulders, restraining him. The other cracked his knuckles once again and punched the former watchman in the belly.

Giselbert did not cry.

He looked up and glared defiantly at his attacker. "You need to punch harder," he sneered. The watchman growled and gave him a right hook. One of Giselbert's teeth flew. "You ready to talk?" Captain Aushwitz growled at Giselbert. The prisoner glared back, with such intensity that it would still a lesser man. Blood dribbled as he turned towards his attacker and spat blood into his eyes.

The watchman cried in anguish, pawing at his eyes, releasing Giselbert, who crumpled onto the ground. His partner roared fiercely as he stomped the prisoner's belly. The prisoner clenched his teeth tighter, refusing to grant the hoodlum the satisfaction of hearing his cries.

After several minutes of beatings, Giselbert laid on the ground a wheezing, bloodied heap. Josef Aushwitz held his right hand, signalling his underlings to cease the beatings. He strode towards the fallen former watchman and knelt down. He then roughly tugged at the prisoner's hair and lifted his head.

"You will tell me everything you know about the riot and the murder. Who started the riot? Was it you?" Giselbert replied disobediently, "You are asking the wrong person." Josef Aushwitz, his patience on the teeters, slammed Giselbert's head into the paved floor of the cell. "So, you don't wish to confess! Then how about the murders? I had read your report you know. You know a lot about the murders. Oh, you know so much. You know how tall and how short the murderers are, you know how many of them there are and you know how they killed the Bachmeier. How could you know so much..unless, of course, you were there, watching them murder, watching them ride the wagon. You can't deny that, can you? Tell me, how did you know so much? Were you there? Were you involved? Do you know the murderers? Are you one of them?"

"Ha...So, you had been reading my report. You probably have to read the report again, this time before drinking. The answers were all there. Hahahaha," Giselbert chuckled weakly. Josef Aushwitz was taken a back for a few moments. Was Giselbert hinting that he knew of the Captain's drinking habits? He recovered quickly enough and slammed prisoner's head into the floor again. "Confess, you little rat!" Josef shouted, loud enough to drown the wails of the flagellants in the cell. Blood pooled on the cold floor. "Confess! You can't possibly know so much unless you are involved! Confess!"

"That was pathetic, captain. My Mother can hit harder than that. Really, my dear captain, you have to stop eating roasts every day. You are getting really out of shape," Giselbert said spitefully. Once again, Josef was taken aback before angrily slamming his skull into against the stone, so violently it shocked the flagellants and stilled their tongues.

"I will come back. You will talk. I will make you talk!" Josef released Giselbert and spat at him. Giselbert was thrown back into the cell, whereupon he crashed into one of the flagellants. Josef slammed the cell door shut and locked it. "Let's go!" he ordered his underlings as they prepared to leave.

As soon as Josef left, Giselbert fell silent and sullen again. The beatings he received this day were more severe than yesterday's. Perhaps the next day's beatings will end him. He sighed softly, regret welling up inside him. There was much he hadn't done.

Knowing the Captain, he will never leave the cell alive.

* * *

It was pitch black in the Holding Cell. Snores and dripping sound inundated the jail. Not even the rowdy flagellants and agitators had the energy to wail through the night. Giselbert was balled up in a corner, trying to keep warm. The sound and the cold made it difficult to sleep, despite the pitch blackness.

Soft tapping and jingling sounds were heard, coming from the stairs and moving towards the cell. With a cough, Giselbert roused himself. Seeing a familiar silhouette creeping down the steps, he called out quietly, hoarsely and with a stutter, "Is….is that you, Lanric?" The creeping figure paused, and he chuckled and replied, "Is there no escaping you, Gis?"

"What are you doing here, Lanric? You could get into trouble if the Captain finds out," Giselbert asked in a low, concerned tone. "Are you really in the position to worry about others?" Lanric Schwart replied as he produced a match and lit his lantern. From the dim light of the lantern, Giselbert could see that Lanric had a black eye and some cuts, but otherwise he was mostly intact. "And look at you. It looked as though you were in the same ring as a Norscan berserker. Anyway, here's some bread," Lanric continued pleasantly as he slipped a piece of bread through the grills.

Giselbert devoured the bread as Lanric stood watch, taking glances at the steps. Upon seeing Giselbert finished consuming his light meal, Lanric spoke with a whisper, "Right, I am not exactly here for a social visit. I have news from the outside. More murders had occurred two days ago, during the riot. No, murder is not the right word. It's more correct to describe them as massacres."

"We are going to get you out of here. I could give you a description of the crime scenes but it would be best if you examine the scenes yourself. I can do a pretty decent job searching for evidence, but I do not have an eye for the small details. Nobody else in the Watch does." Lanric explained his purpose. "We?" Giselbert replied doubtfully, "Look, Lanric. I am never going to get out of here. You know the captain and the lieutenant…."

"Oh, we know the captain and the lieutenant all too well. Whoever said we are going to get you out legally?" Lanric grinned as he dangled a ring of keys before the prisoner.

* * *

Somewhere in Salzenmund there was a large and spacious chamber. It was an ancient place, loose bricks, faded marbles and fused masonry. Yet, it was oddly sterile: no shuffling of rats, no scurrying of cockroaches and no mosses devouring the surfaces.

Steel lanterns emitted a dim, eerie violet glow. Not all of them were the same; a few of them were black as night, and adorned with blade-like projections. These strange lanterns, unlike the others, were carefully, reverently maintained.

The walls of the chamber were lined with weapon racks, within which were several thin, slender-bladed and serrated swords, axes and daggers, all black as sin. Only several of them looked durable enough for multiple uses, yet were cared for so well they looked unused. These weapons were all gathered in one rack quite unlike the others: black with blade-like projections.

In the middle of the chamber was a cauldron large enough to fit several persons, also jet-black and with protruding blades. At its bottom was a miniscule amount of boiling blood, merely enough to cover the bottom. Near it, close to the walls, was a blasphemous obsidian altar, with dried bloodstains upon its surface. On its edges were runic etchings, fine-lined. Sitting on the altar were chalices, resembling the cauldron in design, blood still dripping from the blades lining its edge, like they were freshly shed. Hanging over the altar and stretched across the wall was a silk, purple banner, bearing a large rune of similar design.

Cultists in purple robes, leather armour and black masks, murderers all, filled the chamber to the brim, whispering amongst each other in eager anticipation. "Silence!" shouted a tall figure in a suit of black armour, with golden highlights. The armour, like the altar, had protruding blades upon the pauldrons. The gauntlets were clawed and the all-concealing helmet was tall and pointed. The armour was unlike those made by men: form-fitting instead of bulky, with many interlocking plates, ending with a robe at the bottom, obscuring the leg-plates and the greaves. The armoured figure wielded a blade as tall as himself, black and slender with a notched tip. Behind him, five robed men stood hunched.

"Silence!" the armoured figure shouted once more, and the chamber fell silent. Satisfied, the figure spoke, his voice ringing from within his armour. "I heard of your efforts from two days ago. While such an act and the resulting offering of blood were...significant, Khaela Mensha Khaine is displeased. You, all of you, had the gall to cease offering for a day! Khaela Mensha Khaine demands that we continue at once!" the creature berated his followers, his right palm sweeping in front of him.

"While the Night is still far, we must not rest our laurels. Khaela Mensha Khaine demands a continuous offering of blood and souls. We must provide!"

"However, I, no, We, are not entirely displeased. Due to the initiative of certain individuals amongst us, the town is gripped in fear! Our presence is now known and felt across this hamlet, nay, across this 'province'! There are many who had witnessed the Bloody Hand and had joined our ranks. I believe you had met. Yet, more are coming, and it would be our obligation to welcome them and to accommodate them. These esteemed individuals who made this possible had proven their devotion to Khaine and shall be granted to the greatest honour and the right to lead their own covens!" declared the armoured figure, pointing at the weapon racks with the better quality blades.

The crowd cheered loudly, "Khaine! Khaine! Khaine! Khaine!" The armoured figure kept silent. Whether he was silently revelling in this obvious display of worship and adoration, or he was showing utter contempt for so crude an act, only he knew. He then raised his clawed arms, and the crowd fell silent once more.

"Continue your work, and strive to prove your devotion! The most devout will be granted the greatest privilege and the greatest honour! For Khaine! For the Death Night!"

The cheering continued, and it resonated through the chamber through the night.


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: **Not many readers, huh? Well, no matter. Here is another author's note. Or rather, author's warning. I will be editing and changing things up from time to time. Why? This whole project is a work in progress. I am liable to make mistakes that may take several months to notice. I am human after all. Whenever I notice something odd, or I think I could rewrite certain passages to make the story flow better, well, I _will _do it. Several times even. It would be nice to have several test readers read my writings and tell me what they think. Perhaps this part is odd. Perhaps the whole chapter confuses him. Maybe the entire portion is unnecessary and should be expunged with great prejudice. But eh, we are not all that fortunate now, are we?

So I make do with what I have.

**Chapter 4: The Trail of Blood**

Giselbert Gottschalk covered his nose, trying to stifle the offensive, rusty smell. Here he was, standing in this horrible, blood-drenched alleyway. Several times, he felt like balking. The victims weren't simply murdered, they were butchered. Whoever planned and executed this massacre had to be a sick man, he decided.

Why did he ever agree to Lanric, and by extension, Emmanuel's request? Why did he even bother coming all the way here, in this Sigmar-forsaken alleyway, instead of drowning his sorrows in a tavern or looking for another job? He searched his muddled head. He remembered Emmanuel promising to reinstate his position, as well as increase his wage. All he needed to do was to help solve this case. Success will grant him the leverage needed to persuade the Town Council to elevate his position to Captain, putting him in the position to reinstate Giselbert as a watchman. He hated to admit it. Though he may be able in body, he will have difficulty securing another job. The certainty of reinstatement, if he fulfilled his end of the bargain, was preferable to the uncertainty of new employment. He cursed himself. He cursed his poverty. He cursed his desperation. And he cursed his Father.

"No dawdling around, Giselbert! Get to work!" the bruised and battered former watchman reminded himself. He sighed deeply and dared himself to look around. His gaze fell upon the bloodied walls and floor. Giselbert recoiled. His throat clenched uncomfortably. He looked away. He leaned against the wall, bent his knees and bowed down. He tried to vomit, to no avail. He had already emptied his stomach off his meager breakfast in the previous crime scenes.

Giselbert coughed and wheezed, trying to catch his breath. He produced his hip flask and drained it of all its contents. He coughed as the vodka burnt his throat.

He wiped his mouth and scolded himself hoarsely, "Oh, don't be a pansy, Giselbert! Steel your nerves already! This ain't the first time you had to deal with murders!"

"And this is already the third site! You should have gotten used to this!"

However, he couldn't get used to this. So much blood. Even with the Watch's best efforts to cart off the remains to the Garden of Morr, there were still bits and pieces here and there.

Giselbert froze, his ears alert. There were footsteps. He leaped into hiding. His dark brown eyes peered from behind the corner. A pair of halberdiers patrolled past, engrossed in their discussion. As soon as the halberdiers disappeared from sight, Giselbert came out of hiding. "Best get to work," he told himself. "Before the halberdiers return."

He took a deep breath, steeled his nerves and surveyed the scene of carnage. His mind screamed and wailed, urging him to look away. Giselbert struggled hard to master his urge. His mind and soul continued to wail in horror as they recoiled from the terrible spectacle they beheld. Giselbert trembled as he took in every bit of abnormality he could find, no matter how minute and seemingly insignificant.

A thin line was seen on the brick wall. The attacker missed his mark. The victim must be struggling. One of the bricks was chipped, and there were bloodstains on it. The killer had stabbed the victim into the wall. Giselbert examined the line further.

He then looked at the filthy, blood-soaked ground. There were depressions in the filth. Some persons, murderer or victim, may have fallen onto it. There were patches of dirt mingled together with the dry, coagulated blood. Footprints. He ignored those. They were irrelevant. He knew the fool who left those footprints and he knew said fool well enough to know he was not the culprit.

Moreover, there was the 'clawed hand' (which he came to call it). It was large, stretching from one wall to another. Its lines were drawn from the blood of the victims. Just how many did the murderers butcher, to procure enough blood to draw a sigil this large? It was obvious that the murderers were trying to say something. A sign. A message perhaps? If so, what did it mean?

Giselbert looked up. The sunlight barely trickled through the gaps between the roofs. He looked deeper into the alleyway. It was dark. He could barely make out the outline of a shattered crate. His heart told him to stay away, to walk away, to go home. He had done enough here. He deserved respite.

Against his inner urgings, Giselbert pressed on. He walked down the alleyway. There was something he needed to confirm, even if his better judgement tried to stir him away from it. Even if there was a chance that the culprits had returned, whatever their purposes. He threaded cautiously. His eyes squinted, his ears alert, trying to catch any peculiar presence, any hidden adversary.

He took a dozen steps, and found himself staring at a steel manhole cover.

Giselbert perked up. He heard footsteps. A shadow loomed before the alleyway entrance. It was getting closer, larger. The former watchman swiftly scurried away, deeper into the alleyway, as Lieutenant Hansel Aushwitz entered the scene.

* * *

Giselbert pulled his moth-eaten fur jacket closer together as he briskly walked down the dilapidated streets of the Slums District. He could see a barker standing in front of a boarded up shop. "The Town Council beseeches all to stay in your homes after dark!" the barker shouted. He was ignored by the impoverished and the downtrodden who made the District their home. Instead, they favored a seemingly well-to-do man, standing on a stack of crates amongst them. His well matching set of clothes were devoid any signs of wear and tear.

"Once again, the Town Council and the Elector Count had shown their inability to act! They are bloated and incompetent! You had seen how well they handled the Flagellant Riots! And you had borne witness to the Backalley Massacres!" the political agitator addressed his audience while wringing his fists with a show of fury. The resentful masses nodded, shouted and jeered in agreement. "And what did they do? Telling us to stay home!" the political agitator pointed at the barker. "Why is our freedom denied, while those responsible remain free? I ask you this!"

The crowd cried out in outrage. The barker continued to shout the Town Council's proclamation, adding a few slanderous remarks in a somewhat desperate bid to draw the attention of the masses. Giselbert stopped briefly and watched them. He decided he had no business with the resentful mob and moved along.

Giselbert found himself in a wider street. Stalls were set up on the road side. An old woman tried desperately to divert attention to the food (leftovers from the more luxurious inns) in display at her stall. He could see a pair of scrawny children digging through the filth. A stray dog barked at a wasted man, lying prone, with a thin piece of rag spread over his person. He could see a spousal quarrel happening in the windows of one of the apartments. He could see a scruffy man thrown out into the streets. "You have to give me time! I will have the money! Just two more days! Please!" the man, with only the filthy clothes on his back, pleaded on his knees. The landlady answered his pleas by hurling a bundled-up sleeping mat and a tinderbox at the rent-dodger. The rent-dodger, desperate to evade the wrath of the fat lady, urgently and pathetically crawled away. The door slammed behind him.

The former watchman took a turn to the left. He found himself in one of the lonelier corners of the Slums District. He walked past apartments so old they looked like they could fall apart at any time. He soon reached his destination.

A haphazardly built shack, wedged in between the three-story apartments, stood before him. It was very close to the moss-laden wall, which encircled Salzenmund. After all, it was built from various materials. Clay, bricks, planks of wood, they all took part in the construction of these walls.

Giselbert slowly pushed the door open. The door creaked loudly, threatening to fall off its hinge. Giselbert noted that he should take a look at the door the next time he was free.

"Is that you, boy?" a weak voice feebly called out. "Is that you, Giselbert?" "Yes, Mom. I am home," Giselbert Gottschalk replied loudly as he removed his jacket. "Taking a walk..."

Giselbert froze. Standing by the fireplace was a thin woman in a patched up beige dress. She had a gray, tattered shawl over her shoulders. Her long, graying hair reached her hips. However, the graying hair and her feebleness were the only evidence of her actual age. Without those, she would have looked ten years younger than she should.

The former watchman, upon seeing his mother tending to the fireplace, dropped his jacket onto the floor. He hurried to the woman with great urgency and quickly grasped her hand. Giselbert's mother looked at her son, wearing a mixed expression of surprise and annoyance. "Mom, please," Giselbert pleaded. "You need to get back to bed."

Giselbert's mother's expression softened. She bowed her head slightly, allowing her bangs to half-conceal her eyes. She spoke softly, meekly, "But, Giselbert, I had been in bed all day! You had been gone all morning today. And for the past three days, you had not come home! I was cold!" "But Mom, you could barely stand! I thought I told the neighbors to care for you!" Giselbert pleaded. His Mother looked up, fire suddenly flared up in her cataract-plagued eyes, startling Giselbert. Giselbert's mother wrung her small fist and complained, "I am not so bed-ridden that I cannot take care of myself! I can still walk! My hands can still hold the pot! I can still cook!"

Giselbert's knees bent into a half-begging posture as he pleaded, "Please Mom, just rest. I will cook this time, alright?" Mother sighed softly in resignation. "Fine, but don't you have to go to work?"

Giselbert paused, pursing his lips. He gazed at his mother, wearing a hesitant and worried expression. His mother silently watched him, waiting for his reply. After a while, Giselbert replied, "Not today, Mom. I'm on leave,"

"Just need to meet some people, that's all."

* * *

Giselbert exited through the portal, having seen his mother to bed. The dirty rag, which covered the portal, slid off his back. The former watchman picked up his jacket. The shack rattled. The fire danced. He could hear a loud howling through the cracks in the walls. Giselbert shivered. He wore his jacket again.

Giselbert opened a cabinet and picked up a fresh bottle of beer. He poured the beverage into a grime-encrusted tankard and downed it. He felt himself warming up. The former watchman then pulled the old, dust-covered table closer to the fireplace. "Now, that is that..." Giselbert mumbled as he set the stools. "Back to work..."

Giselbert pulled open the drawer of an old cabinet. The furniture groaned as he rummaged through its contents. He soon found what he was looking for. He picked up and placed his very old writing kit onto the table. He removed and set several pieces of brown and worn paper onto his table. He sat on the stool. The stool creaked, in response to the weight placed onto it. Giselbert then opened a half-empty bottle of ink and dipped a black quill.

"So...what do I know about the crime scenes?" Giselbert pondered as he tapped his quill. He bent forward and started scribbling in his parchments.

There were thin lines and some thin layers of debris at the walls. There were depressions in the filth. Undoubtedly, there was a struggle. However, the number of lines and large depressions were minimal, indicating that most of the victims did not respond to the attack. They were ambushed.

Even with all the bodies removed to Doktor Koch's, he could still tell that there were multiple victims. The amount of dried blood in the three crime scenes he investigated could not possibly be shed by a single person. It will be unbelievable to assume that these victims entered the ambush sites one at a time. The differences in the heights of the strokes in the walls helped affirmed his 'multiple attackers' theory. He could not, however, be certain of their nature.

"Now on to the nature of these marks..." Giselbert muttered as he wrote on a fresh piece of paper. The marks were thin. Definitely inflicted by thin, slender blades. Just like the ones that ended Ludwig Bachmeier. The cuts all had different depths. However, judging by the depths of some of these marks, he could tell that swords, similar to the daggers in thickness and probably in design, were used.

Then there was the matter of the sigils. "Unless my memory fails me, these sigils were identical to the one carved into Bachmeier's forehead..." Giselbert reminisced. The ambushers belonged to the same organization as the murderers of Ludwig Bachmeier. Just how many members did the organization have? They had daggers and swords and equipment used to drain blood. What other resources did the organization have?

Moreover, why did they do this? Why spill so much blood? Why drain Ludwig of his blood? He was certain that the sigil was meant to be a message. What did it mean? Merely a symbol of the organization? Or did it carry a message? Or perhaps a part of a ritual?

Giselbert shuddered. Part of a ritual? That sounded like the culprits belonged to a heretical cult of some sort. The former watchman tried to push the thought out of his mind. However, the idea stayed with him, a stubborn nagging voice in his head.

The sigil on the forehead. The murderers could easily just place a note instead of taking the trouble marking Ludwig with such an intricate sigil. The blood. It could be meant for a ritual. Perhaps an offering of some sort. The large sigil in the ambush sites, the pointless massacres...

It looked as though it was to draw the eyes of something non-human. Something greater and more terrible. A higher power.

Giselbert shuddered at the thought. He snatched the bottle of beer on the table and drained it completely. "No, Giselbert. You are thinking too much," the former watchman muttered. "It can't be a cult. It just can't be..."

Giselbert paused. Why did he deny the possibility so fervently, despite the evidence laid down before him? He searched his heart and found the answer. He was afraid. He wasn't afraid of the cult, no. He was afraid of what will happen should the Elector Count, no, the witch hunters got wind of this.

"Tap! Tap!" Someone was rapping the door. Giselbert got up with a start. He looked around frantically, eyes wide in alarm and distress. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage. "Tap! Tap!" Giselbert look to the door. "Oh..." he mumbled worriedly. He took deep breaths and walked to the door. He drew a skinning knife behind him, took a few more deep breaths, and opened the door slightly.

There was a young boy standing outside his door. He looked barely nine. His red hair was messy. His dirty clothes and lack of shoes were typical for guttersnipes his age. A toothy smile stretched across his sweaty and freckled face. His blue eyes gleamed with joy. Giselbert studied the boy, and then sheathed his knife.

"What did'ya want?" Giselbert frowned and asked. The boy's smile slowly vanished. "A wotchman with a funny smile have got a message for you, Ser. Paid me ten pences to get it delivered, he did. Promised me another ten if I do it in ten minutes," the young slummer stretched his arms out, holding a scroll. Giselbert sighed. Damn that Lanric, he thought as he opened the door. He snatched the scroll from the young boy and said roughly, "Don't move!" He disappeared into the shack for a moment, before reappearing again, his right hand gripped tightly. "Show me your hand," Giselbert sternly ordered. The boy, now sweating from fear rather than tiredness, meekly held out his hands. "Here's yer ten pence," Giselbert dropped ten copper coins into the open palms of the young slummer. The boy watched the coins fall into his palms, astonished. He stared at the coins, and then back at Giselbert, who was closing the door. "Thank you, Ser!" the boy shouted gratefully. He was replied with a grunt and a shut door.

Giselbert returned to his chair and quickly unraveled his scroll. He read the contents of the scrolls carefully. Lanric had the courtesy to use the simplest Reikspiel, so he need not consult a dictionary.

After silently sifting through the parchments, Giselbert set the papers on the table. He held his forehead and sighed, tired. He got up, walked around the commons a few times, and sat down once more. He then dipped his quill into his ink bottle again and started scribbling.

The victims were either struck at the throat, the heart, the kidneys or the liver. They were mostly bled dry. There were at two victims missing a heart and a liver. There was a small footnote at the end of the page, explaining that the heart pumps blood, and the liver is full of blood. It was clear now, the murderers held special interest in the blood of the victims.

The other parchments had a list of names, names of the victim. Under the names were brief histories of these unfortunate individuals. Giselbert could find nothing in common about the individuals, reinforcing his belief that the murderers did not choose their victims. They simply walked into the trap.

Giselbert took a few more deep breaths. He closed his ink bottle, rolled up his papers and stashed his writing materials back into a small wooden box. He got up and put on his hat. He stashed some of those papers, containing his deductions and hypothesis, into his pocket.

Giselbert hurriedly got up. He filled his hip flask with cheap beer and prepared to leave. If indeed the culprits were heretics, the witch hunters will soon flock to Salzenmund.

There were a number of things he knew he must do, and quickly. But first, he must find a messenger boy.

* * *

"Ah...ahah!" a short, portly man cried out as he lifted a silver ring high into the air in triumph. This man, who looked very much like a child except for his large and very hairy feet, was a halfling. The halfling danced in celebration, all the while, singing his praises to Ranald, the God of Luck, Thieves and Trickery. He dumped the ring into a dirty open sack. He then resumed digging through the pile of trash.

"Gildo! Fancy meeting you here!" a rough but joyous voice spoke. Gildo, the halfling, turned his head around. He smiled toothily as he exclaimed, "Giselbert!" The halfling stood up and threw his arms around the much taller Giselbert. "Giselbert! It's been ages!" Giselbert hugged back, lifting the halfling slightly into the air, "Been ages alright!"

"And just as I was thinking about meeting you too!"

Gildo gazed at the former watchman quizzically. "You are looking for me? Why? You aren't planning to arrest me for scavenging, are you? I know what you did to poor..." the halfling gasped. "I wasn't in the position to refuse, Gildo. Captain Aushwitz insisted that I arrest him. I can't refuse orders," Giselbert shrugged. "Don't worry. I am not in uniform."

"Oh..." Gildo fidgeted and looked at his feet. "Oh...I see...Right!" Gildo smiled again. "It's been five years, Giselbert! How had you...wait, nevermind," Gildo frowned, noticing the bruises and caked blood on Giselbert's visage. "I will live," Giselbert shrugged. "How's the gang?"

"Broke up. Mostly. The boys had already grown up. Gone their separate ways. As you see, I'm still scavenging. I think ol' Viktor and Kempf are still scavenging around," Gildo answered. "Ah, it's cold out here. Hey, wanna head to my shack?" the halfling smiled as he pointed backwards, hand balled into a fist and a thumb outstretched. "I can make us a pie or two. Scrapped just enough coins to buy ingredients..."

"Ha ha, I love to have some of your pies! Your meals always look as though they belong on the Emperor's table!" Giselbert laughed. Gildo puffed up in pride, "I'm a halfling! Nobody bests us in cooking!" "Hah! That cannot be denied. However, I have to refuse," Giselbert frowned, his expression grim.

"Your eyes still good, Gildo?"

"If my eyesight was bad, I will be out of business!" Gildo chuckled. "Hah! Very true!" Giselbert could not help but grin. Good old Gildo. Can always be counted to put smiles on people's faces, even during bad times. Giselbert wondered if Gildo could maintain that good spirit if he had known the task he will soon be setting before them.

"I happen to need another good pair of eyes! Here's the deal. Help me look for tracks and you can keep all the loot you find!"

Gildo dropped his cheer and wore a grim visage, "There's a catch, right?" Giselbert was somewhat surprised. He never thought the halfling could look like that. "Whatever made you think that?" he asked. "Well, the deal sounds too good. And momma says that such deals always come with a catch," Gildo folded his arms. "Out with it."

"I will explain once we get Edgar," Giselbert said as he looked at the apartment before them. The three story apartment, like all the other buildings in the Slums District, was in a state of extreme disrepair. As though it could collapse at any time.

Gildo followed Giselbert's gaze and glanced at the apartment briefly. "Your Edgar lives here? Damn boy, looks like Ranald likes you," he blithely stated, his cheerful demeanor returned. "So, who is this Edgar?"

"He was a sewer maintenance worker. If anyone knows the sewers, it will be him," Giselbert replied. Gildo's smile dropped. "The sewers? You are going into the sewers?" Gildo's eyes widen in shock as he gasped. "Are you insane?"

"I know what you are thinking, but whatever stalked the sewers three years ago was already gone! We had survey teams going down there two years ago. Saw absolutely nothing but collapsed tunnels and scratches on the walls. Also, those responsible for the Backalley Massacres wouldn't have used it to travel around town if there's still whatever haunted the sewers was still there," Giselbert explained. "Backalley Massacres! Good Ranald, Giselbert! What had you gotten yourself into?" Gildo cried. He paced back and forth while shaking his head. He threw his arms into the air as he cried again, "Never stop getting into trouble! Sodding hatter!"

"Mad! Absolutely mad!"

Giselbert frowned. He wanted to kick himself in the rear. He spoke too much already. Well, might as well. He was planning to divulge his plans eventually.

The halfling looked like he would refuse. However, Giselbert knew the halfling since he was a child. He was the leader of the gang of scavengers he used to be part of, rummaging through garbage dumps for the sake of chump change. Gildo used to keep half the earnings then.

Giselbert knew Gildo. He knew Gildo well. He knew exactly what he needed to say, what point to emphasize, to assure the halfling's cooperation. This can't possibly fail, unless the halfling had long turned over a new leaf. Something Giselbert highly doubted.

"Gildo, just think of the loot," Giselbert deadpanned. Gildo stopped protesting as he mulled over the statement. "Well, I just need to look for tracks, and I get to keep all the loot I find?" the halfing skeptically asked. "Yes, Gildo. You keep the loot," Giselbert nodded. "And there won't be...whatever was in the sewers three years ago?" Gildo pressed Giselbert. "Yes, they are gone." "And the murderers?" "You aren't required to fight them."

Gildo pinched himself in the ear. Giselbert struggled to contain a grin. The halfling was buckling.

"I get to keep all the loot, right?" Gildo asked again. "Yes," Giselbert replied.

"The broken toys?" "Yes."

"The odd crowns?" "Yes."

"Jewellery?" "Yes."

"Some weird engineering gizmo?" "Yes! Yes! And yes!" Giselbert grunted irritably. "Gildo!" Giselbert declared as he grasped the halfling's shoulders roughly, "You get to keep Ghal Maraz or Count Gausser's Runefang if you found them in there! All loot! Yours! Understand?"

"Mmmmmm," Gildo mused. However, looking at his posture, Giselbert knew he had already decided. He was just being difficult.

"I'm in! Let's go get that Edgar!" the halfling replied, his voice dripping with excitement and enthusiasm. His greed was showing in his large, blue eyes.

Before the former watchman and the halfling scavenger was a damp, somewhat warped door. Dust and mold had collected in the gaps and the fissures on the door's surface. The door knob was rusty. Giselbert took a deep breath. He started coughing. The apartment had collected a few years worth of dust and mold! How could anyone possibly still live here?

"Are you sure Edgar still lives here?" Gildo asked the very question in swimming in Giselbert's mind. The halfing looked around. The ceilings were waterlogged. The wooden flooring was warped, with some of the planks already snapped. There was a very thick layer of dust on the door frame. "Well, this was his last known address," Giselbert replied. "If he ain't here, we will ask the landlady."

The former watchman knocked at the door.

There was a loud yelp, followed by a crash.

Giselbert and Gildo stood before the door, waiting for Edgar to emerge.

The door remained shut.

Giselbert pounded the door once more. The door groaned and creaked. It was visibly warping. It started to loosen from its hinge. There was a cry of panic. "Edgar!" Giselbert shouted.

"No! No! No Edgar here! Yes-yes, no Edgar here! Skaven go-search other places! No Edgar here!"

Giselbert narrowed his eyes. The voice that replied was very shaky and very nervous. What happened to Edgar these past three years?

Giselbert shouted as he pounded at the door, "It's me! Giselbert! Remember that watchman who pulled you out of that manhole three years ago?"

A brief moment of silence. Giselbert grumbled. Gildo arched his bushy eyebrow and turned to look at Giselbert. He sighed as he rubbed his forehead, while leaning against the doorframe. "Well, looks like Edgar's madder than a hatter. There isn't another sewer maintenance crewman you can find?" he asked. Giselbert rubbed his forehead and sighed, "Edgar's the sole survivor. And the sewers haven't been worked on for three years. Them folks were too spooked by whatever went on down there to sign up for the job."

Giselbert looked up. Gildo yelped upon seeing his hard expression. Giselbert turned towards the door. He walked up to the door, twisted his waist and slid his right leg back, his boot scraping roughly against the floorboards.

"Right, stay back, Gildo. I'm going to…."

The doorknob turned slowly. Giselbert and Gildo froze. The door slowly opened. A pair of small, blue eyes peeked from behind the gap. "Giselbert?" Edgar nervously asked. "Giselbert?" His voice was low, almost a whisper. The eyes behind the gap fluttered, glancing around the corners. "Quick! Come in! Before the ratmen find you!" The door yawned open.

Giselbert and Gildo looked at each other. "You sure about this?" Gildo asked, his bushy eyebrow arched. Giselbert shrugged. "Hurry!" Edgar urged from within the darkness of the apartment. The duo indulged the obviously disturbed former sewers worker. They stepped through the door.

The door creaked. It closed with a click.

"Sigmar's blood, Edgar! It's dark in here!" Giselbert complained. He could hardly see anything. The dark curtains must be drawn. He felt a thud against his shin. He must have hit furniture of some sort. Also, there was a very foul, almost overpowering sour smell. "And what's with the smell? Get some light in here!"

"No-no! No light! Skaven will see! They will find me!" Edgar squeaked. "Edgar! There are no skaven! Just get the lights on! We can't see anything!" Giselbert complained. "No-no! No-no! The skaven! They are here! Scratching around, scurrying around. They are looking for me! No lights! No lights!" Edgar whimpered. "Here ya go!" Gildo stated, a little too cheerfully, as he lit a match.

Edgar squealed and cowered away from the very dim match-light. Gildo lit an oil lantern, illuminating the dark room. Edgar yelped in panic as he cowered in a corner. "Where did you get that, Gildo?" Giselbert asked. "It was beside my feet!" Gildo grinned as he poked the side of his head, just beside his eyes.

Giselbert looked around as the halfling placed the oil lantern on a creaky table. The room was horrible! Dung and blood smeared the walls and the flooring! The sheets were absolutely filthy! As though they weren't washed for years! The cabinets and shelves were filled with spoiled food! Smeared on and around the table and stool were age-old porridges!

This explained the foul stench, Giselbert thought. He turned his attention towards Edgar.

He was shocked by the former sewers worker's appearance.

Cowering in the corner was an emaciated man. His tunic, which was filthy beyond belief, hung on his skeletal frame. His black hair, which reached his waist, was matted and caked in filth. Giselbert could see something crawling in his hair.

This was not Edgar as he remembered him. Last time they met, Edgar was the epitome of masculinity. Large, strong arms. Impressive musculature. An impressive twirly mustache. Black hair parted in the middle. A perfect smile perfectly matched with a perfect set of pearly-white teeth. The sort of man who invited dreamy gazes and swooning sighs from all those buxom tavern wenches. All those features were long gone now.

"Edgar?" Giselbert asked as he walked towards the nervous wreck. "No! No! Yes! Yes!" Edgar muttered. "Edgar, what...what the hell happened to you?" Giselbert asked in astonishment. "Skaven...skaven...skaven everywhere! I keep seeing them! Hearing them! Scratching! Scratching in my head!" Edgar whimpered. "There are always watching, always waiting. They want me dead! Nobody sees a skaven and lives!"

Skaven? Was that what scared Edgar? Were the fabled ratmen the ones who lurked in the depths of the sewers? Were they responsible for the deaths of almost the entire sewer maintenance workforce?

Impossible! Skavens do not exist! They were only childhood monsters, used by parents to scare their children into behaving. Giselbert knew. He was with the survey team three years ago. There was nothing in the sewers. Nothing! Nothing but collapsed tunnels and scratches on the walls!

Giselbert realized something amissed. Anything suspicious and unusual was gone. Vanished! Disappeared! They never did find the bodies of the sewer maintenance crewmen. The official story was that they were crushed by the collapsed rubble. Their own fault, they say. Did a shoddy work maintaining the tunnel and they had paid for it with their lives.

But was that really true? There was a very strange absence of corpses or remains or anything, as though someone had done an extensive clean up. Perhaps something really did happen, and that something traumatized Edgar so. Was it a cover up? Giselbert shook himself from his musings. No time. Those will be questions for later, after the whole heresy business was over and dealt with.

"Edgar! Snap out of it! We need you!" Giselbert grasped Edgar's once-broad shoulders and shook him. "We?" Gildo admonished as he folded his arms and glowered at Giselbert. "Alright! I need you!" Giselbert corrected himself, hard expression unchanged. "You are the only one who really knows the sewers! We are going down there! I need you to guide us!"

Edgar shrieked as he scratched at his head, "No! No! I am not going down there! I am not going down there! The skaven waits in the depths! They wait in the tunnels!"

Giselbert grumbled. What should he do now?

"Edgar! I saved you three years ago! You owe me! Would you rather that I leave you trapped down there?" Giselbert yelled. Edgar stopped chattering and mulled over the statement. "...but the skaven..."

Giselbert frowned, looking severe. His limbs tensed. He paced back and forth, cursing and muttering under his breath, inviting strange looks from Gildo. Giselbert grumbled loudly and incoherently. They should be down in the sewers by now, tracking the culprits! Instead, here they were, trying to sooth the nerves of a half-mad former sewers worker! Giselbert shot a glare at Edgar. Edgar cowered and retreated further against the wall under his withering gaze. Giselbert marched up to Edgar and grabbed him by the collar. Edgar yelped pathetically as he looked into Giselbert's furious eyes. Giselbert roughly shook him, inviting more whimpering from the emaciated man.

"Look, Edgar. Skavens! Do! Not! E..." Giselbert growled.

"Giselbert's tough," Gildo interrupted. "He can take care the skaven." Giselbert released the whimpering former sewers maintenance worker and snarled at the halfling. The halfling whistled as he avoided the former watchman's gaze. "Handle skaven?" Edgar uttered, sounding hopeful. Giselbert closed his mouth and gazed at Edgar. Edgar had an enthusiastic look on him. "Kill-kill skaven? Yes-yes!" Edgar trembled. He had a mad look in his eyes as he grinned manically. "Yes-yes! Wait-wait here! I get tools! Tools!" the former sewer worker enthusiastically scurried away.

Giselbert blinked, looking dumbfounded. He shook his head, turned and glared at the halfling. The halfling shrugged, put on an audacious grin and said cockily, "You are welcome."

* * *

"CAPTAIN! GISELBERT GOTTSCHALK WAS ALREADY DEAD WHEN I FOUND HIM!" Lanric shouted. "I DISPOSED OF HIS CORPSE, AS PER STANDARD PROTOCOL!" "I KNOW YOU AND THAT SLUM RAT ARE FRIENDS, YOU USELESS SACK OF BONES!" Captain Aushwitz shouted back.

The Captain of the Watch and his subordinate were shouting in the Holding Cells, despite being within spitting distance from each other. This made for a surreal sight, if not for the shouting from behind the bars. "WITNESS THE VIOLENCE INHERENT IN THE SYSTEM!" the convicted demagogue shouted at the other convicts while pointing at the shouting watchmen. The convicted flagellants too were shouting and wailing, "REPENT, YE SINNERS! DOOM STALKS AMONGST US! IT FEEDS UPON YOUR UNCLEAN SOULS! REPENT!"

The watchmen and the unruly political agitator and flagellants resumed shouting in the Holding Cell. The other convicts, the petty thieves, pickpockets and vandals, winced as they covered the ears, trying to drown out the loud voices.

"AS I SAID, CAPTAIN! HE WAS DEAD! DO YOU DOUBT THE DOKTOR'S REPORT?" Lanric shouted again. Captain Aushwitz was trembling. His tightly clenched fists were shaking. His mustache quivered. His belly rippled. He shouted angrily, "SILENCE!"

He was ignored. The convicted flagellants and demagogues continued with their shouting matches, trying to be heard amongst the roaring.

"SILENCE! EDVARD! KLAUS! SILENCE THE CONVICTS!" Captain Aushwitz trembled violently as he shouted at his henchmen while waving agitatedly at the cell. The two burly watchmen saluted. They turned the keys and confronted the prisoners.

The beatings were brutal. Teeth flew, bones were broken. The beating stick cracked upon the flagellant's spine. The demagogues were battered in their bellies and jaws ("HELP! HELP! I'VE BEEN REPRESSED!"). Lanric felt bile rising in his throat, thoroughly disgusted by this display of barbaric brutality.

Thankfully, the beatings were over as quickly as they begun. Peace and tranquility finally prevailed in the Holding Cells. The other convicts, for the first time in their pitiful, verminous lives, looked upon their wardens with gratitude. Edvard and Klaus grunted as they locked the grills.

Captain Aushwitz wheezed and grunted as he returned to Lanric. He was still flushed. At least his arteries were no longer throbbing. He coughed and wheezed. His frown softened, just a little, as he spoke, "You should have at least let me see the corpse for myself! He can't possibly have…"

Lanric sighed. The Captain was still convinced that Giselbert was still alive. He was not wrong, but it would be for the best if he had thought otherwise. "Do you truly expect a starving person to survive two days being maimed and abused in this frigid room?" Lanric interrupted gesturing at their surrounding.

Captain Josef Aushwitz paused. He pursed his lips. True. The Holding Cell was cold. He was told that the cold was very unforgiving during autumn and winter nights. Why, just this morning, he had the cold bodies of three convicts and a flagellant carried out.

The captain's beard rustled as he rubbed his fat chin. He twisted his mouth, eyes looking sideways, reminding Lanric of an ogre trying too hard to think. Lanric knew he had given his captain paused. He had another set of arguments formed in his mind. He opened his mouth, about to verbalize his arguments, which he was certain would convince his captain.

Lanric felt a sudden shiver. He could feel his hair standing on its end. The air had suddenly grown chilly. Yet, despite the apparent coldness, Lanric could feel his sweat welling up under his helmet and leather jack, feel the warm beads dripping from his chin. He gasped and adjusted his collar. He could feel his breathing and his heartbeat quickened.

Lanric looked at his captain and his henchmen. Captain Aushwitz was dabbing his flushed, sweaty forehead with his white cotton handkerchief. Klaus and Edvard were fidgeting, their hands on their swords, looking around nervously. Even the murmuring and mumbling of the convincts had ceased entirely.

Lanric could hear the stairs creaking behind him. However, he could not hear any footsteps. Someone was coming, and whoever it was, it was unnaturally lightfooted. Lanric's sweat dripped from the tip of his nose as he placed his hand on the grip of his sword. He whispered a prayer of thanks to Sigmar. If he hadn't been wearing gloves, the sweat on his palms would have made his grip slippery. He whispered another prayer to the patron god of the Empire, this time, for protection.

Lanric slowly turned his gaze towards the stairs. He could see a shadow descending down the stairs. He studied the shape of the creeping shadow, trying to determine the identity of this possible foe. As he studied the shape closer, he could feel his heartbeat quickening and his breathing grow heavier.

The shadow grew. The stairs continued to creak, steadily louder as time passed. Yet, Lanric could hear no footsteps. He tightened his grip, ready to draw at first sign of trouble. The shadow crept ever closer. The creaking grew even louder. And almost too suddenly, the creaking ceased entirely and the shadow disappeared, engulfed by the darkness of the Holding Cells.

The owner of the shadow, however, was now standing before them, its nature now made clear to the watchmen and the convicts occupying the Holding Cells. Lanric felt his teeth chattering. His limbs were shaking uncontrollably. He could feel his heart pounding violently against his ribcage. He gasped and gulped for breath. Lanric slowly retreated from the creature which stood before him, studying him, looking into his soul with cold eyes.

Lanric whimpered softly. He felt a desperate urge to avert his gaze. He ignored the urge and steeled himself, daring himself to look at the creature. Try as he might, he couldn't stop himself from trembling.

His vices were playing in his head. He saw himself accepting a bribe from a tavernmaster, to turn a blind eye to the unlicensed establishment. He saw himself pocketing some of the jeweleries recovered from a kleptomaniac cat burglar. He saw himself carting away a barrel of smuggled beer away from from where it was recovered, and away from its intended destination.

Lanric's knees felt weak. He felt compelled fall onto his knees and beg for clemency. He looked to his captain and his 'colleagues'. The captain was sweating profusely. His face was flushed, his mouth was chattering though not a single word was uttered. His henchmen were shaking in their boots, glancing at each other frequently. Their legs trembled, as though they were struggling to maintain control of their bowels.

He then turned to the creature. The creature stared back. Again, Lanric felt the almost overwhelming need to avert his eyes, fall onto his knees and beg for mercy and forgiveness. The wide-brimmed hat. The cloak, black as pitch. There was no doubting the identity of this creature.

His, and Giselbert's, fears had come true.

The witch hunter cometh.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Vermin**

Lanric's head was spinning. Though he was no stranger to hectic schedules, this was probably the most things he had seen happening in the span of two hours. The witch hunter scarcely introduced herself when she ordered for the complete rearrangement of the first floor. Tables were gathered and arranged in the middle, the left wall was completely cleared of any posters and notices and the Captain's Desk was moved from its proper position to where it was now, in the first floor at the head of the gathered desks, despite the captain's protestations. Before he could catch his breath, the witch hunter ordered for a status report (which he had provided). Next, under the captain's advisement, she split the watchmen into four teams. The first team was tasked with gathering and organizing the reports pertaining to the murders and massacres, in chronological order. The second team was to gather the dossiers of every physician, apothecary, alchemists, metallurgists, priests of Morr, record keepers and anyone who has cause to collaborate with the Watch. The third team was to make contact with the roadwardens and woodsmen outside Salzenmund and to search for the missing wagon with their aid. The fourth team, which he was unfortunately drafted into, was to follow her into the sewers to track the supposed 'heretics' responsible for the Backalley Massacres.

So here he was, following this clobbered together group into the sewers. Right in front of him was the senior watchman, Emmanuel Marx. Emmanuel Marx was taller and older than he was. Old enough to be his father, Lanric reckoned. He glanced behind him. Johannes, the unusually cold, boy-faced watchman was following him. Johannes joined the Watch about the same time he and Giselbert enlisted. He was about as old as he was. Captain Aushwitz's rejects, all of them. He knew these people, having served with them for five years, under the former captain.

Right behind Johannes was the 'rear-guard', the ironclad giant whom he knew as Brother Gottlieb. Brother Gottlieb was Sigmarite, through and through. It was obvious from the holy verses carved into his armoured vestments and his great warhammer, which took the likeness of the Twin-Tailed Comet.

What truly impressed and awed Lanric were the scars, however. A deep cut into his skull. He surmised that must be inflicted by an axe. A crevice over his left eye. Lanric imagined that the scar very nearly cost the warrior priest his left eye. The very savage cut at the corner of his lips. Inflicted by the glancing blow of a spiked club, perhaps? His great warhammer was worn, with a few very stubborn bloodstains on the head. His armour was just as scarred as the wearer. A massive cut to the sides, which was patched up, worn out holy vestments, some chipping and scratches here and there...

He could easily tell that the warrior priest led a very violent life. How did he manage to survive this long? And more curiously, how did the witch hunter manage to procure his services? Lanric look to his front, to the witch hunter leading this motley crew.

The witch hunter, who introduced herself as 'Fruehauf', paid him, nor anyone else, any heed. She dourly looked about, her muck-stained ponytail swaying about as she lowered her pole-and-lantern to shine at the filthy ground and murky waters in search of tracks. Occasionally, she would crouch to take a closer look, staining her ponytail and cloak further, before standing up and moving on with a predatory gait. Thus far, it seemed she had not led them astray.

He had heard many foul and terrible things about witch hunters, half of which were told as bloody fables by his parents when he was younger. He heard of how witch hunters could smell fear and guilt, how they are ruthless and merciless in their pursuit of their prey: the witch, the traitor, the mutant and the heretic. He had heard about the terrible fate befalling those unfortunate enough to spend a night in the witch hunters' dungeons. He even heard stories of witch hunters reducing entire villages to ashes, all for the crime of harbouring a single heretic.

Remembering all those tales made Lanric worried. He read Giselbert's report, just before they set off to this dank stretch of tunnels. Giselbert intended to follow the tracks found under the manhole in one of the crime scenes. He silently prayed that they will not cross paths. Emmanuel and Johannes may ignore his presence, but Frau Fruehauf might not. And if half of the tales were true, Giselbert's fate, should he be discovered, will be very…unpleasant.

He gazed at Emmanuel. Sensing his gaze, the senior watchman glanced back at him. This watchman, with his hard features and his lion's mane, could easily be taken for the Lieutenant or the Captain of the Watch. And indeed, he was the Lieutenant, before Captain Aushwitz and his son, that useless 'pretty boy' Hansel, was sworn into service as Captain and Lieutenant of the Watch respectively. Emmanuel gestured at Lanric to be at ease. He will deal with this witch hunter.

Lanric sighed quietly behind his neckerchief. Try as he might, Emmanuel failed to conceal the quaking of his boots. How could he be expected to 'deal' with the witch hunter, whatever form that 'deal' may take?

Lanric froze. He felt eyes upon him. He looked frantically around Johannes raised his pole-and-lantern, illuminating the scratch-covered walls. The warrior priest did not seem to pay him any heed. He blinked. He turned away and sighed wearily again. He must be hallucinating out of fatigue.

He was worried that his rendezvous with the messenger boy was discovered by the witch hunter or the warrior priest. It seemed that his worries were unfounded.

The witch hunter stopped suddenly. She raised her hand. Lanric noted that her gloved hand was...small, the glove itself being a little large on her, and having to be fastened to her slender forearm with two thick belts. The witch hunter may terrify him, but he could not help but feel a little curious about her veiled appearance.

"Lanric! Pay attention!" Johannes hissed behind his mask as he held him back. "That was a signal to stop!" Lanric blinked. "Oh right…sorry," he bowed his head slightly and muttered sheepishly. Johannes shrugged. Emmanuel approached the Witch Hunter. "Milady..." he spoke. "Ssssh!" the witch hunter hissed.

The witch hunter remained mostly still. She was turning around slowly. Lanric realized that all the watchmen too had become still. He decided to follow the pack. He slowed his breathing and slowly looked around.

Skrit! Skrit! There was a soft, scratchy noise. Lanric felt his skin crawl and his hair standing up. Skrit! Skrit! The scratchy noise was getting louder. Where was it coming from? Sweat welled up beneath Lanric's helmet. The watchman swung his pole-and-lantern to his back. Johannes backed away, narrowly avoiding the lantern. Lanric ignored the watchman's swearing as he looked to the back. Was the noise coming from the back? Skrit! Skrit! Lanric swung to his right. There was nothing there, save for Emmanuel and the witch hunter. Skrit! Skrit! Skrit! The noise was getting louder. Where was it coming from? Skrit! Skrit! Skrit! SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! Lanric flailed around, visibly panicked. Where did that come from? Was it coming? What was it? Where was it?

SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! Lanric gazed at the walls. No...It couldn't be! It couldn't come from the walls! It's impossible!

Lanric trembled. He remembered the ramblings of a sewer maintenance worker he and Giselbert rescued three years ago. "Ratmen! Ratmen! Ratmen!" his mad ramblings echoed in his skull. Lanric drew his sword as he hurriedly backed away from the mouldy wall. "Ratmen! Ratmen! Ratmen!" the maddened voice continued to echo.

Lanric remembered the tales his mother used to tell him. Be a good lad, she said. Or the underfolk will come out of the walls and kidnap you. Stay in bed, she said. Or the underfolk will find you and eat you.

Lanric quivered in his boots. He felt a warm and moist patch growing in his breeches. Steam formed around his groin. He flailed about, desperately looking for the source of the scratching noise. Desperate to disbelieve that there was anything in the walls. "Skaven do not exist! Skaven do not exist!" he chanted.

The other watchmen drew their swords. Brother Gottlieb, the warrior priest, whispered a prayer as he readied his warhammer. The witch hunter stuck the pole-and-lantern into the muddy ground. She turned around, her black cloak hanging on her back, her dual-barreled flintlock pistol and rapier drawn.

She pointed her rapier at Lanric. A threatening gesture. Lanric gasped and jumped with alarm. He looked around frantically, wondering if he did something, anything, which would arouse her suspicion. Did he fidget too much? Was he sweating too much? Arousing a witch hunter's suspicion was 'unhealthy'. Witch hunters were known to execute suspects out of 'mere' suspicion.

Lanric trembled more vigorously. His knees felt weak. His eyes were wide with terror. SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! He desperately tried to recall if he did anything that could be seen as heresy or treason. Anything at all! Was it because he was interacting with Emmanuel a while ago? But Frau Fruehauf did not accuse Emmanuel! Did she notice his rendezvous with the messenger boy? She must have! She's a witch hunter! Nothing escapes the notice of a witch hunter!

SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! The noise was getting increasingly louder. Closer. Lanric looked at Emmanuel. Emmanuel gazed back warily. He then looked at Johannes and Brother Gottlieb. They too warily watched him. SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! Lanric turned to the walls, then to his colleagues once more. They were looking at him!

Did they think him mad? Maybe! Maybe terror has gotten to him! Perhaps he was insane! Perhaps he was hearing things!

Did the witch hunter think him possessed? Was that why she was pointing her rapier at him?

Lanric was about to fall onto his knees. He tried to think of something to say. Anything to plead, to prove his sanity, to divert the witch hunter's judgmental gaze away from him! SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! The noise was getting to him. He couldn't think. The scratchy noise seemed to echo in his mind. SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT! SKRIT!

The witch hunter spoke, her voice soft but urgent, "Lanric! Get away! Now!"

Lanric, almost by impulse, obeyed the witch hunter and leaped away. In a nick of time too, Lanric realized. The tunnel wall crumbled beside him. Dust filled the air, worsening the already poor visibility. Lanric glimpsed into the abyss that opened before him. Countless red eyes stared back from the darkness within the hole in the crumbling walls. Lanric shrieked as a screeching sea of plague-encrusted fangs, matted brown fur and scaly tails flooded into the tunnel.

* * *

It had been three years. Three years. And a mere three years was all it took for the sewers to crumble. Giselbert shone his lantern at the brick walls of the tunnel. Some of the bricks had already fallen off. Mould had its way with the ancient walls. It crawled all over the gaps and cracks in the walls. Its tendrils stretched far and deep. Even those scratch-marks, scratch-marks so deep it bit into the bricks themselves, had mostly faded. Probably eroded by the fast flow of collected summer rain and consumed by the mould. Giselbert threaded carefully. It wouldn't be unthinkable if his next step, a careless step, would trigger a tunnel collapse.

Giselbert shone his lantern at the ground. Muck, filth and bodily wastes, along with the carcasses of rats and cockroaches and stagnant water, had accumulated throughout the month. There was, after all, no rainwater to wash the filth away into the chutes this season. The stench was overpowering. He could smell it from behind his neckerchief.

However, Giselbert was thankful for that. If the water did not wash off the grime and muck, the water certainly will not wash away the tracks of his quarry.

Giselbert froze. The sound of something scurrying, running across the stagnant stream. Something was in the tunnel with them. They were not alone.

"Squeek!" Giselbert felt his hair stand. "Aeeeeiiii!" someone behind him let out a blood-curdling shriek. Giselbert spun around, shining his lantern at the source of the scream. Edgar moaned and mumbled as he cowered against the mouldy brick wall, his breech stained by the foul sewer water. He clutched the map of the sewers tightly with his left while shielding his eyes from the lantern-light with his right.

"Oh, for Sigmar's sake!" Giselbert grumbled as he approached Edgar. "Stop embarrassing yourself!" Edgar feebly raised his skeletal finger and pointed into the darkness behind them. "Ska...ska..." he stuttered. Giselbert thrust the lantern into the path behind them. The darkness retreated from the light. Giselbert could see black fur and a scaly tail scurrying away, fleeing the light. "Squeek!"

Edgar shrieked again. Giselbert sighed. He had to admit, the sewers had an eerie atmosphere. The pitch darkness, the feeling of walls pressing down upon them, the moist earth and stagnant water, the pungent, vile odour and the scurrying and merry-making of rats...the effect was undeniable. He had to admit that even he was unnerved. He even caught himself whispering prayers and looking behind his back a little too often. And he did not need Edgar's shrieking and panicked jumping to worsen his already shaky resolve!

"It's a rat, Edgar! A rat!" Giselbert berated the former sewers worker as he roughly pulled him up by his collar. "But...but..." Edgar pleaded. "A rat! Now stop jumping at your own shadow!" Giselbert grunted as he turned away. "I want to go home," Edgar moaned.

Giselbert seethed. Edgar's constant prattling about skaven this and skaven that annoyed him immensely. His patience was wearing thin. Very thin. Another one of these episodes and he might just find himself pummelling the sorry sack of bones into the filth. He turned to Edgar and violently snatched him by the collar. "Edgar, you will follow us, you will guide us, or we will be leaving you here!" And to make his threat more severe, the former watchman maliciously added, "And we will be taking the lantern!"

Edgar howled in terror. The thought of being left alone in this Sigmar-forsaken tunnel, alone, in the dark with no source of light was unbearable for him. "Please, please, no, please leave-leave lantern! Please!"

Giselbert grumbled as he held his forehead. It seemed that Edgar has lost his nerve! Now...what to do...

"Edgar," a cheerful voice, almost too cheerful, slithered from under Giselbert. "Edgar, don't you want to avenge your friends?" Edgar stopped sniveling. A small spark of fire lit up in his beady eyes. "Yes-yes! Kill-slay skaven! Skaven must pay! Skaven must pay for kill-eat friends!" he feverishly chattered. "Yes-yes! I go now! Find-kill skaven!" Edgar got up. He brandished his beating stick and walked deeper into the tunnel, ignoring that he wasn't carrying a lantern and was moving ahead of the group. Giselbert glared at Gildo, the halfling scavenger. Gildo merely chuckled as he followed Edgar's lead, carrying his own lantern.

Giselbert sighed beneath his neckerchief. He hated to admit it, but Gildo's words were more effective than his tirades in getting Edgar off his scared behinds. The thought that Giselbert will seek out and slay any ratmen they find was what drove Edgar into following them into these depths to begin with. Vengeance is a very powerful motivator. However, Giselbert doubted that he would be able to make good that promise should he come across the dreaded underfolk. He could, however, take comfort that the underfolk do not exist. Mere myths and scary stories told by parents to their young'uns.

The skaven do not exist. He was with the survey team dispatched into these depths three years ago. They found no signs of skaven, beyond the scratches on the walls and one or two collapses openings in the walls. No signs of skaven.

Skaven do not exist!

Right?

Giselbert realized he wasn't confident about that fact. While he denied their existence fervently, he still found himself wondering if there really was something lurking in the sewers those three years ago. Something collapsed the tunnels, something dug those holes, and certainly, something had made those scratches on the walls and whisked away the corpses.

Something was here. Might it have returned again? The sewers had been abandoned for so long; surely some foul existence had made its residence...

"No, no...stop thinking!" Giselbert muttered. "You say something?" Gildo asked. "No, nothing," Giselbert replied, wiping the sweat off his brow. "Mmmmmm..." a small smirk flitted across the halfling's face as he turned around. He walked away, slowly, following Edgar, dragging his half-full sack behind him. Giselbert grumbled. Gildo must have sensed his uneasiness. He will not hear the end of it for days to come.

The three continued their trek down the sewers. Soon, they found themselves in a crossroad. "Remember, Gildo. Look for tracks. See where it goes," Giselbert repeated himself for probably the fifth time. "I get to keep whatever I find, right?" Gildo inquired, perhaps for the fifth time. Giselbert grumbled as he nodded.

The stagnant water splashed repeatedly. Giselbert grumbled once more as he turned to Edgar, who had trailed behind them once more, his feeble bravado having faded away. Edgar pointed his finger towards, no, past Giselbert. His mouth was chattering. His skeletal form was trembling violently. The tunic, which hung on his person, was swaying comically. His legs were shaking. The color had drained from his scrawny, fleshless cheeks. "If it's another rat..." Giselbert grumbled as he turned towards the direction Edgar pointed at. He gasped and leaped back. He dropped his lantern. "Sigmar's blood!" he gasped.

Gildo shone the lantern towards the object of Edgar's distress. The darkness retreated away from the lantern-light, revealing the creature concealed within.

Giselbert was sweating. Edgar had stumbled backwards and crawled, scurried, for the walls. Gildo was stunned. The thing before them was covered in matted black fur and had a scaly tail. A dirty rag was draped over its form. Giselbert picked up his lantern and slowly approached the creature. He kicked the creature. No response. The creature was dead. He slowly, cautiously turned the creature to its back. The creature's apparently boneless hindquarters flailed and flopped as he did so. As soon as the creature's back hit the ground, Giselbert recoiled in alarm and horror.

The creature had the head of a rat. Its hands, no, paws, were ragged and bloody. Shackles were bound to its wrist, its rusted chain shattered. Its lower body was crushed by something heavy. Bone fragments jutted out of its legs and its abdomen. Blood, black as night, had spilled from its nether region. The creature's red eyes stared back at him lifelessly. Giselbert took several steps back. He turned around, bowed over and vomited.

That thing...that thing was a skaven, Giselbert realised. The underfolk were real! Giselbert coughed as Gildo approached him. "Giselbert..." Gildo held his shoulder. Giselbert, discarding his neckerchief, wearily looked at Gildo. Gildo shone the lantern around them, gesturing him to look at the walls at ceiling. Despite dreading what he might see, Giselbert obeyed. He slowly turned his gaze upwards, towards the lantern-light. He swallowed his saliva. Dread welled in his heart.

What he saw made him fall onto his back. Massive cuts in the brick walls, entrails strewn across the walls and ground, a mangled skaven, its upper half missing, teetering upon the ragged bricks by the strands of mangled flesh, tendons and skin. Black blood stained the ceilings and walls and dyed the stagnant water and filth. Giselbert's throat clenched painfully as he tried to vomit again, but he had already emptied his innards.

Gildo glanced back and forth. He fidgeted as he approached Giselbert and shook his shoulder. "Giselbert...we need to go..." Gildo stated. Giselbert gazed at the halfling. He could see his brow twitching, the sweat on his cheeks and rolling down his nose. He was trying to suppress his terror. "Skaven! Skaven! Skaven! Why had they come! I had been a good boy, Ma! I had been a good boy!" Edgar chanted in the dark. The discovery had sapped and broken his feeble resolve. "I had been a good boy. I had been a good boy..."

"Look, Giselbert, there are underfolk about. We have to go, or they will find us," Gildo pleaded. "And if half of what my mama said was true, they will eat us, or make us slaves, or skin us, or worse!" Giselbert held his breath. He tried to think, despite the terror and the horror assailing his mind and soul. Continue onwards and risk running into living skaven? Retreat and lose a lead to the culprits?

Giselbert sighed heavily. Skaven or no, this was the only lead he had. He will follow through it. The terror of meeting skaven will pass after he leave this sewer, but the fear of being murdered in bed will continue for much longer if he pass off this lead, and the opportunity to put a stop to this heresy along with it.

"We will move on."

"What? Are you mad? Sodding hatter!" Gildo blathered, not bothering to disguise his fear. "You sodding mad! I'm going!" Gildo turned to leave, dragging his sack behind him. "Gildo! Think of the loot!" Giselbert pleaded. "Living is better than loot, boy!" Gildo rudely remarked. "Please-please, let me come! Let me come!" Edgar hurriedly crawled to the halfling. "Look...Gildo...Edgar..." Giselbert pleaded once more. Gildo and Edgar stopped and turned their gazes upon him. There was a mix of terror and resentment in those eyes. Giselbert sighed. Why did he even bother? They had already lost their nerves!

"Just give me the map," he requested. Edgar threw the map onto the ground and scurried after the disappearing Gildo. Giselbert sighed again as he retrieved the map. He shone the lantern at the map. Lightly-stained. At least Edgar was courteous enough to not throw it into the filthy, muddy pond. He then shone his lantern into the crossroads. A massive, gaping hole dug into the walls to his left. Not the direction he was going. Lots of skaven tracks to his right. Track definitely lost. How about the front? No...tunnel section collapsed. From the looks of it, had collapsed since three years ago.

There was only one path to follow. From whence the dreaded skaven came.

Giselbert gulped. He whispered a small prayer for protection as he stashed the map behind his belt, drew his skinning path and followed the only path.

* * *

"Hah! Hah!" Giselbert panted as he hurried down the tunnel. His heart was thumping, almost jumping out of his ribcage. The water splashed loudly beneath his feet. In his terror, he ignored the stench that assaulted his nostrils. In his haste, he ignored the scurrying rats. Twice he stepped into the small bodies and tails of the vermin that called the sewers home.

Giselbert was afraid. He remembered his mother's stories about the skaven. He recalled his grandfather speak about them, of how he and his friends ran into the underfolk, how his friends were hacked to bits by crude and wicked blades and blasted by foul, corrupt magic. Every sentence, every word, every phrase that snaked into his mind only added to his fear.

Giselbert was seeing skaven behind every shadow. He was seeing skaven behind every tunnel opening; he imagined red eyes watching from behind every gap between the walls. Imagination, he told himself. Fevered imagination. Tricks played by frightened eyes.

Why was he so afraid? Giselbert questioned itself. Was it because that the tracks in this path were fresh? Was it because there were footprints of something much larger, seemingly pursuing these ratmen? What was he truly afraid of? The skaven? Or this massive beast that pursued them?

"Stop thinking!" he told himself. "Stop thinking!"

Giselbert continued to hurry. There were skaven about. The sooner he strayed off this path, the better. He tried to banish his fearful visions. He gave a prayer to Sigmar, praying that he will soon reach a path free of skaven tracks.

Giselbert soon found himself before a junction. He prayed to Sigmar once more, praying fervently that this was the path the murderers took. He walked into that path. He stooped low, lantern shining at the ground. His prayers were answered. Bootprints, just like those under the manhole cover. He gave his thanks to Sigmar and took the path.

Giselbert hurried down the path. He did not stop to read the map, to make sense of where he was. The thought of leaving behind that dreadful skaven path as far away as possible dominated his mind. He took a right turn, following the tracks. Satisfied that he had put quite enough distance away from that dreadful tunnel, he stopped to breathe.

* * *

Giselbert coughed. He was now aware of the vile, pungent odor attacking his nostrils. He wheezed. He collapsed against the grimy walls and slid down onto the filthy ground. He did not care about the stain that now tainted his breeches. He was too tired, too exhausted, to bother about it. He took out his hip flask. Ignoring the fact that his hands were dirtied, nor the fact that he was surrounded by grime, muck and filth, he opened the flask and drained its contents. He coughed as the beverage burnt his throat.

Giselbert's breathing slowed. The thumping in his chest gradually disappeared. He wheezed as he unravelled the map. He had left that dreadful place, without incident. This would be the best time to make sense of where he was.

The former watchman learned that he was now in the eastern-most side of the sewers, close to the River Salz, just below the Docks District. The spacious place, where all the tunnels and pipes met and emptied down into a massive chute, was the emptying pit. Every filth and excrement ever produced by the townspeople in Salzenmund will find its way here. "That explained the odor," Giselbert realized.

Giselbert kneeled. He placed the lantern onto the muck. He must know if he had lost the trail. He found bootprints. Three distinct sets. Identical to the ones he found earlier. However, there was one more set of footprints. The footprints of a rat, a rat the size of a man.

Giselbert found his heart palpitating once more. He stood up, his body tense, his eyes alert. Skaven! There's a skaven here! Was it still here? Did it leave? Giselbert glanced at the high ceilings, the walls, the shadows, trying to find any sign of skaven. He hazarded a glimpse at the ground. He could see the bootprints scatter about. One set has shorter, heavier strides. Dark stains accompanied the prints. He was wounded.

Battle! A battle took place here, between the cultists and the skaven that assailed them. Did the cultists slay the skaven? Or did the skaven slew its prey?

Giselbert's eyes snapped to the walls. Something was moving in the shadows! He could hear it scratching the bricks! He was not alone!

Giselbert was alert. His heart thumped. His limbs trembled. Sweat dripped down his chin. The lantern-light swayed. Something was here! He could hear it scurrying, skittering about! Faint, shuffling footsteps! Where was it coming from?

He felt the air shifting behind him. Giselbert spun around. He felt his lantern striking something. He glimpsed a snout. He saw a pair of hungry red eyes. He saw black fur. He could smell a foul stench emanating from the creature's spiny, black fur. The creature fell onto the ground and bounced. Something metallic clattered onto the ground. The creature continued to bounce towards the edge of the chute. It shrieked as it disappeared down into the abyss.

Giselbert had already run. He did not bother to investigate further. He did not stop to see if the creature was dead. He fled down one of the tunnels, without stopping to look back.

* * *

Lanric lay still on the grimy ground. Stagnant water seeped into his helmet, mixing with the welled-up sweat. Lanric breathed heavily. His heart was palpitating. Fatigues' claws were dug deep in his body. His shaking sword was still gripped tightly in his hand. A warm, foul, thick and black liquid stained his leather jack and his arms. Hovering above him was a creature he had never believed existed. A creature he thought only existed in grandmother stories or in fables.

The creature above him had the head of a rat. Its jaws were loose, its tongue lolling. Its yellow, chisel-like fangs were bared. Its lifeless red eyes had rolled back. Its bloody paws, ragged, torn, worn and broken, hung just above his face. The creature's corpse slowly slid down his sword.

"Uuugh!" Lanric groaned as he pushed the skaven away from him. He placed his boots onto the creature's body, a rat's body shaped into a mockery of a man's. He pressed his dirty boots into the creatures rags, rags so worn not even the most pathetic of beggars will be seen wearing it. He drew his sword from its bloody corpse.

Lanric heard chittering fangs. He swung around, about to meet his assailant with his blade. He yelped, seeing the skaven leap upon him, ragged paw-like hands that ended with claws stretched out, its yellow dripping chisel-like fangs chittering. A silvery blade lashed out, driving itself into the skaven's throat. The skaven convulsed as blood spurted out from the wound of its throat. It collapsed onto the ground, still twitching and convulsing, its tail lashing side to side, its black blood spilling into the mucky puddles.

Lanric collapsed onto his back, releasing his sword from his loose grip. He panted wearily. He froze, realizing his error, and looked upon his savior, eyes wide and pupils shrunken with worry and fear. The witch hunter, Fruehauf, stood between him and the nightmarish skaven horde that flooded the tunnel. He cowered, fearing that the witch hunter would execute him for cowardice. The witch hunter paid him no heed, focused instead on the peril before them.

The blood-drenched witch hunter stood upright, without betraying any sign of weariness. She had her thick-bladed rapier in her right and her dual barrelled pistol in her left. He could see that she was not unscathed from this encounter. He could see the fresh scratches dug into her weathered, dull-coloured greatcoat. He could see the bloodstains and scratches on her adorned steel spaulder upon her right shoulder.

Her facial features were half-concealed by the tall collar of her cloak and greatcoat and her hat, but the wavering lantern-light revealed the pale skin and the golden strands underneath. Lanric could glimpse her eyes, and what he saw made him tremble and quake. Those green eyes were cold and dispassionate, eyes he associated with assassins and other killers-for-hire.

Another skaven cried. Its head rolled onto the filthy ground. Emmanuel panted as he struggled to stand upright. Another skaven lunged at him. The watchman took a step back, his bloodied sword raised over his head, and swung downwards, striking the shrieking ratman in the forehead.

Lanric gazed towards the other end of the tunnel. Beyond the sea of fur and fang, there was the muted sound of flesh tearing and bones breaking and the brief flashes of light. That was all he needed to know that Johannes and Brother Gottlieb were still alive, holding their ground against the verminous tide.

Fruehauf swung her rapier around, intercepting the claws of another skaven. The rapier's guard and hilt had olive leaves motif. The rapier's thick blade was worn, with numerous scratches on its surface, which revealed the grey steel underneath. The witch hunter lashed out, driving her blade into the creature's shoulder. She withdrew and plunged her rapier into the skaven's forehead twice in quick succession. Another skaven leaped upon the witch hunter. The witch hunter swung around, slicing the skaven across its eyes. The skaven shrieked, and was swiftly silence by the blade in its throat.

"Get up!" said the strong voice of Emmanuel Marx, as he tugged at Lanric's wrist. Lanric looked at Emmanuel. He could see the fear in the senior watchman's eyes. However, the watchman had smothered that fear with desperate determination. "Get up!" Emmanuel said again. Lanric croaked, his throat clenching painfully. He nodded weakly. He gripped his sword and tried to get up and steady himself.

Another skaven was upon him, having slipped past Fruehauf's defenses. With a panicked cry, Lanric swept his sword at the skaven, cleaving its lower jaw from its snout. The skaven let out a muted cry as he kicked the creature down and drove his blade through its exposed throat.

There was a loud bang, followed by the noxious stench of expended gunpowder and a flash of light. Lanric cried as he felt warm blood and skull fragments splatter his cheek. His eyes snapped towards the witch hunter. Blood had splattered onto her greatcoat and hat, though she did not cry, nor say a single word. The skaven she shot was flung back, crashing into the surging tide.

She twisted her torso, narrowly evading the relentless, manic attacks of a skaven. Lanric could hear a soft screech as its claws bit into the witch hunter's weather-beaten breastplate. She's swept her pistol into the skaven's lower jaw. The skaven's skull jerked back as it retreated. The witch hunter followed up her attack with a thrust into its throat.

Another skaven snarled as it leaped over her. The witch hunter ducked as she raised her rapier, plunging its blade into the creature's abdomen. The creature shrieked as she threw it to the ground behind her, right before Lanric. Lanric cried hoarsely as he split open its belly.

The witch hunter swung her pistol upwards and pointed towards another advancing skaven. Smoke engulfed the weapon as its barrel flared with a roar. The skaven convulsed as half its skull exploded, splattering the wall and murky ground with blood and gore. The skaven quivered and crumpled, spilling the rest of its brain matter into the muddy puddle.

Lanric collapsed, overwhelmed with fatique and fear. The blood-drenched witch hunter spun around. Feeling her cold gaze, Lanric yelped in fear. The witch hunter marched forward. Lanric yelped as he raised his arms and cowered. Lanric heard the soft splashing of the puddles and glimpsed the fluttering of her cloak and greatcoat and the silent stomping of her steel-tipped riding boots. He blinked as he lowered his arms. He could still feel his heart pounding in his chest, though the fear had dulled somewhat by his fatigue. The witch hunter strode past him, ignoring him and his shameful display of cowardice. He looked at the witch hunter, puzzled, as she approached the panting Emmanuel, who was drawing his sword from a skaven's corpse. Wasn't she going to punish him for failing to protect her?

Lanric breathed a sigh of relief and whispered a prayer of gratitude to Sigmar. He stood up, only to almost collapse again. He leaned against the wall as he surveyed the carnage around him.

Strewn around him were the corpses of the loathsome ratmen. How many of them? A dozen? Tens of dozens? He did not know. He lost count. He could only remember himself hacking and slashing desperately as the tide of skaven threatened to overwhelm him, and the witch hunter marched forth and stood between him and certain doom.

Lanric slid onto his back. His throat felt parched. He groped his belt for his canteen. He found his canteen missing. It must be lost during the battle. Hidden beneath the piles of skaven carcasses perhaps. He did not think he could stomach touching the tainted, revolting corpses. He had touched enough skaven, with blade and fist, for the night.

Johannes kicked away one of the corpses. He was wearing an expression of fright and disgust. Mostly fright. One of the surviving skaven knelt before Brother Gottlieb. Its posture suggested that it was begging for mercy, or perhaps, release. The warrior priest, his lips curled into a contemptuous growl, brought his warhammer into the skull of the skaven. Lanric averted his eyes as the skaven's skull caved in with a sickening crunch.

"Lanric, are you alright?" Johannes asked, as he wobbled towards Lanric, taking care to avoid stepping on the filth around him. "I'm fine. Just tired," Lanric panted. "Here," Johannes shoved his canteen at Lanric. "Figured you might need a drink." Lanric nodded in appreciation. He removed his mask and drank deep. So exhausted and dehydrated he was, he did not mind the filth and scum and the vermin lying all around him.

Brother Gottlieb strode past the beleaguered watchmen, his dark blue cape flapping behind him. He approached the witch hunter, who was reloading her pistol, and the senior watchman, who had cleaned and sheathed his sword. The witch hunter kept her silence. Lanric shivered as he felt her cold eyes falling upon him. The witch hunter gazed at him briefly before turning her eyes towards the Johannes, then towards Emmanuel and Brother Gottlieb.

"Thank Sigmar we are still alive," Emmanuel spoke as he made the sign of Sigmar. The witch hunter silently turned her gaze towards the senior watchman. She spoke, her voice seeping from her veil like a winter breeze, "Thank Sigmar we encountered mere skaven-slaves." "Skaven-slaves?" Emmanuel gaped, the color draining from his face. Lanric's head snapped towards the skaven lying beside him. He realized that all these skaven had numberless scabbed-over scars cut across their backs, under their tattered rags. He also noticed that their paws were ragged and bloody, and bounded in manacles with rusted chains. "Had this been a skaven warband, we likely would not survive," the witch hunter impassively continued as she gazed towards the maw in the wall. "Why would slaves be attacking us?" Emmanuel inquired, his voice laced with dread rather than curiosity. The witch hunter spoke again, confirming his, and Lanric's, fears, "Something drove them towards us."

"What are you planning to do?" Emmanuel asked again, his voice laced with dread. The witch hunter silently nodded. Emmanuel gasped. He exclaimed, his gesture fierce, his voice loud, "What? Did we not do enough? Now we are going to stir up more trouble?"

The witch hunter merely nodded in affirmation.

Emmanuel grumbled as he approached the watchmen. "Get up, Johannes and Lanric. This isn't over," he said, wearing a grim expression. Lanric nodded. He understood what was happening. The witch hunter planned to lure more of these monsters out.

Lanric, Johannes and Emmanuel clutched their swords tight as they flanked the crumbled abyss. Brother Gottlieb stood before the hole, his warhammer at the ready. The witch hunter knelt, further staining her boots and her cloak with more filth. She held her pistol in both her hands and pulled the trigger.

A bright flash. A loud bang. The stench of rotten eggs assailed Lanric's nostril. The witch hunter stood up. She searched under her cloak. She removed a cartridge from the thick belt, which coiled around her narrow waist. She tore open the cartridge with her teeth and poured its content into her pistol. She removed a ramrod and jammed the powder, shot and paper down the barrel, before removing another cartridge and repeated the procedure.

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence. Lanric expected something to happen. Something to march out of the abyss, to answer the challenge. More skaven perhaps? He gripped his sword tighter. He could feel sweat welling up in his gloves. He felt his arm shaking. He feared that his will may break should he encounter even more skaven.

There was a loud thumping noise, coming from the hole. Lanric breathed heavily. Something was coming, and it certainly wasn't skaven. The footsteps were loud. Far too loud.

The thunderous footsteps were getting louder, faster. The ground shook. Something was approaching, fast. Something large. No, something massive, something monstrous. Lanric stood at the ready. He lifted his sword, ready to strike the witch hunter's prey. He saw the warrior priest leapt away, just as something massive tore through the hole and barrelled towards him.

He was thrown back by the force of the impact. His sword clattered behind him. Dust filled the air. There was a loud noise, almost like an explosion. Lanric coughed. He felt hands tugging at his arm. "Get up!" Emmanuel grunted. Lanric felt something hard shoved into his palm. His teary eyes turned, beholding the grim visage of Johannes. He got up and took a stance, sword in hand.

The dust cleared, revealing the monster. Lanric felt his skin crawl. His heart was palpitating once more. Fear had gripped his heart again.

Standing before him was a foul, unnatural creature. The beast had the look of a skaven. However, unlike the weak, jabbering mass he battled earlier, this thing was much larger, much more monstrous. It loomed before them. Its head reached the ceiling. A pair of large horns jutted out and curled from its skull. Horns large and curled like a ram's. Bony plates covered its back, the side of its skull, its snout and its limbs. Its claws, long and sharp like curved swords, pressed its prey into the cracked wall. Its muscles coiled and bulged as it matched its strength against the might of the warrior priest. The wall cracked further, bricks fell loose. Its piston-like muscles looked like it would burst out of its leather-like skin, as it threatened to crush the warrior priest. Its thick, snake-like tail, ending with a large bony, spiked growth coiled and writhed and lashed at the walls, gouging deep scars into the bricks and mortar.

Fumes exhaled from its nostril. Its loud breathing echoed down the tunnel. Lanric was shaking in his boots. His heart was thumping. The inside of his gloves were slick with sweat. How could they hope to survive this encounter? How could they expect to triumph in this battle?

The monster curled its 'lips', revealing its dagger-like fangs, and it roared its challenge. Black, rancid blood and spittle wetted the warrior priest. The warrior priest growled in disgust. Lanric could catch words, words ancient and foreign. The warrior priest was chanting something, in a language he only ever heard uttered in the Temple of Sigmar. An old tongue. Khazalid, the tongue of the dwarfs.

The warrior priest burst into a pillar of light. Darkness retreated as the light engulfed the tunnel. Lanric felt his fear dissipate along with the darkness that surrounded them. The burden of fatigue has left his body.

The creature recoiled, covering its eyes, blinded by the light. The shattered chains on its wrist clattered against its chest and thighs. It let out a tortured howl. Lanric felt his very bone shake and tremble as the monster's cry washed over him. He stood his ground. His fear was gone, replaced with hate and disgust. His fatigue was gone, replaced with determination. He looked at Emmanuel and Johannes. Their faces too were grim. They shared his thoughts. He looked at the witch hunter. She drew her bloodied rapier and full-cocked her pistol.

The monster recovered from the shock. It swung at the warrior priest. Brother Gottlieb dodged the strike. Bricks were flung and shattered. The tunnel shook. The warrior priest roared a fierce battle-cry. His warhammer burned with searing light as he swung at the skaven monster.

* * *

Giselbert Gottschalk panted as he ran down the tunnel. He did not know if he was going the right way, nor did he care. The only thought in his mind was to get away from the chute, as far away from the skaven as possible. "If you suck on your thumb, you will grow whiskers and your snout will grow long," his mother's voice spoke in his head. "Remember Viktor? 'e got gutted by a ratman," his mother's voice was joined by his grandfather's voice. "Quiet!" Giselbert muttered. "Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!" he chanted, trying to drown out all the frightful tales his family saw fit to level upon him.

He turned around the corner. His stumbled, his strength gave way. His lantern fell and tumbled before resting in the muck and filth. Giselbert panted heavily. A wet patch stained his tunic and his filthy fur jacket. Beads of sweat dripped from his hair, nose and chin. "Nnnnngh!" Giselbert groaned as he struggled to get up, to no avail. His strength had left him. He looked around desperately, trying to find the way out, praying desperately he wasn't lost in the sewers.

Shuffling footsteps! He was followed! Giselbert's heart was beating fiercely. "Stay under the sheets, or the skaven can see you," his mother whispered. "The underfolk kidnap naughty children. They make naughty children dig the earth with their fingers, until their flesh peeled from their bones..."

"Quiet! Quiet!" Giselbert muttered as he wobbly got up to his feet. He readied his skinning knife. "Quiet!" He tried to silence the voices. He needed to think. What should he do? Was that the same skaven pursuing him? How will it attack? How can he respond?

Giselbert was knocked onto the ground. How? When? Giselbert did not know. He was only aware that the skaven was on him. He could see its red eyes gleaming maliciously and hungrily. He could smell its vile musk. Its chisel-like fangs snapped as it tried to reach for his throat. Giselbert felt pain, immense stinging pain in his left arm. By instinct, he had shielded himself. Crimson beads dripped onto his cheeks. He struggled. He raised his right arm, trying to ward off the creature. He saw a cruel blade raised above him.

Giselbert clenched his teeth as he emitted a desperate growl. He shot out his right arm and grabbed the skaven's right paw in a vice grip. The skaven cried as Giselbert tightened his grip. "Like I will die like vermin here!" Giselbert hissed as he kicked the skaven off him.

The skaven stumbled, but quickly got back onto its feet. It stood, posture hunched, fur bristling. It snarled fiercely as it pounced on Giselbert again. Giselbert ducked. He raised his skinning knife, plunging the blade into the creature's hind-leg. The skaven cried out in anguish as it landed and stumbled clumsily behind him.

Giselbert's heart pounded. He was afraid. He was afraid of this creature, this creature that haunted his childhood nightmares. However, this fear was weak, overpowered by stronger, fiercer emotions. Resolve, determination. Determination to survive. To live. He knew he had to live. He must live! His mother was decrepit. She depended on him. Stubborn that she was, headstrong as she was, she depended on him. If he die, she will be alone, a lost lamb, ripe for the picking! He can't die. He mustn't die!

"I will not die like a vermin here!" he growled as he lunged at the skaven. The skaven scurried back. Giselbert redoubled his efforts to strike the skaven. His blade thrust towards the ratman's chest. The ratman blocked the attack and retaliated. Giselbert barely evaded the creature's blade. He felt its sting against his cheek.

The left blade approached. It was slow, awkward. Giselbert realized that it must have wounded its left arm. It did not survive the battle with the cultists unharmed! Giselbert swung his skinning knife, sweeping the blade aside. The skaven leaped and kicked him. He was shoved onto the filthy ground and stagnant water. Filth and grime further stained his fur jacket. Giselbert grunted as he got up. He searched for his opponent. The skaven was nowhere to be found! The skaven was gone!

Where? Where was the skaven? Giselbert looked around. Fear and dread welled in his heart once more, threatening to overpower him. Fear. Fear of the unseen, the invisible. The maddening voices spoke in his head once more. "Stop!" he cried, pleaded. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

Giselbert's heart pounded. His knees felt week. He felt his strength fading. He held his head. The voices kept whispering in his head. Shuffling, scratching noises! Where was it from? Giselbert looked around him. Was it from his left? No, right? He couldn't tell. He couldn't see.

The maddening, scratching noise surrounded him, scratching in his mind. Giselbert almost fell and stumble. He hissed. He must not let fear overpower him, or all will be lost! Desperate, Giselbert started to pray.

"Lord Sigmar, if you think my cause just, still my thoughts, so I may gather my wits.

Bless me with your courage and fury, so I will not falter.

Bless me with your wisdom, so I will learn my enemy's weakness.

Bless me with a measure of your strength, so I will defeat my enemy."

Shuffling steps! Scratching in the bricks! Where was it? Giselbert was alert. Fear has left him, replaced with grim determination. It calmed his mind, dispelled the maddening voices scratching in his skull, and honed his senses.

Giselbert could feel movement above him. He glimpsed the lashing, scaly tail, the bristling fur, the wicked, gleaming eyes. The skaven was above him! Giselbert leaped away as a pair of blades struck the ground. The skaven snarled as it lashed its tail at Giselbert's leg. Giselbert jumped, avoiding the attack. His heart pounded. He clenched his teeth. The skaven tried to get up. It stumbled. The skaven stumbled! Look how clumsily and awkward it landed. Its legs must be wounded! Giselbert felt his blood burning. He felt elation. He knew he could triumph!

The skaven spitted and snarled. It leaped, pouncing at Giselbert. "Keep to the right! Its left paw is slow and weak!" Giselbert told himself as he side-stepped, avoiding the right blade. He lashed out, pinning the dagger to the wall. The skaven snarled once more. Its red eyes were hungry and desperate. It raised its left blade, poised to strike. "Now!" Giselbert decided. He swung his leg into creature's shin, or what passed for shins.

The skaven yelped. It stumbled. Its left blade clumsily scratched his fur jacket. Giselbert slammed the wounded left arm with his right, slamming it into the wall. The skaven yelped. It released its grip on its dagger. The vile blade clattered uselessly on the muddy ground. Giselbert followed up the attack with a punch, aimed at the skaven's snout.

The skaven staggered. Giselbert lunged. Noticing its predicament, the skaven lashed out with its right blade. Giselbert easily swept the clumsy blade aside. He riposted, plunging his skinning knife into the skaven's shoulder. The skaven yelped. Black blood spurted and spilled, tainting his fur jacket with its foulness. Giselbert's bleeding left arm shot out. He snatched the skaven by the throat. He felt his skin, bone and muscle screaming in pain. Pain wracked his body. Blood welled up and flowed freely from the wound. He clenched his teeth, trying to stifle the pain, to suppress it with sheer will. The skaven shrieked as he throttled the creature into the wall.

The lantern-light lifted the veil that shrouded the skaven. Its features were bared for the former watchman to see. And what he saw sickened him, disgusted him.

So this was the creature that drove Edgar to madness? This creature haunted his dreams? This creature was responsible for the deaths of the sewer maintenance crew? This creature was responsible for the unwelcome change that swept the Watch?

This rat thing was filthy! It was draped in rotten leather rags, bugs crawled about in its fur and whatever bare skin it had was marked with boils and abscesses.

Every last lingering traces of fear faded from his heart, replaced with a seething hate and disgust. His skin crawled with revulsion as he tightened his grip upon the skaven's throat.

The skaven's jaws snapped. Its encrusted fangs gleamed. It flailed its tail. He felt it lashing at his thigh. The skaven gripped his wrist. Its claws bit into his flesh. It kicked, trying to free itself. And yet, Giselbert did not release the beast. The pain it inflicted did not register to Giselbert, too engrossed in thoughts of retribution.

The skaven's jaws jittered. Saliva dripped from its maw. The fierce, malicious hunger faded from its blood-red eyes. It must have realized that it was bested. It had lost. Its fate was Giselbert's to decide. It chittered, its jittery, verminous voice conveying its desperation and cowardice, "Please-please, strongest of man-things. Strong-mighty man-thing. Brave-cunning man-thing. Spare this stupid-useless Critskik." The cowardly words did not invite any pity from the former watchman. Instead, he felt disgust for this vermin.

"Praise Sigmar!" Giselbert proclaimed as he withdrew his blood-stained skinning knife from the skaven's limp shoulder. He raised his skinning knife high. The skaven's red eyes were wide with terror and despair. It struggled harder. It kicked at the former watchman. Its tail lashed furiously. It scratched at the slum-born's wrist and forearm, cutting into his jacket and tunic. It struggled to be released, struggled to escape its fate. "And slay the vermin!" Giselbert's knife struck. The skaven shrieked, and then fell silent. Giselbert slowly released his grip. Its corpse slumped onto the grimy ground. Its hind legs twitched. Its tail spasmed, then fell silent and still.

Giselbert panted as he wiped the sweat on his brow. He wiped the filthy, black blood off his skinning knife. He grunted. He was now fully aware of the pain in his left arm, the stinging pain in his cheeks, wrist and thigh. The pain nearly overpowered him. He was surprised he could fight as well as he did. Surely, Sigmar had blessed him, made him strong. He whispered a prayer of thanks.

Giselbert removed his jacket and discarded it. It was tainted with the skaven's blood. The foulness will find its way into his flesh if he let it linger. Who knew what corruption the black, unclean blood carried?

Giselbert noticed the ladder leading out of the sewers. He limped towards it. He felt his strength fading. The battle had nearly exhausted his strength. He stumbled and found himself looking into the muck.

Footprints! Just like the ones he followed from the manhole! He did not lose the trail! Truly, he was blessed this day! Giselbert whispered another prayer of thanks as he wobbly got up. He summoned what's left of his strength and will and climbed up the ladder, towards the exit.

* * *

Lanric was flung onto the dirty ground. He coughed, trying to be rid of the taste of dirt. He reared up. Saber-like claws crashed down upon him. Lanric clenched his teeth as he scurried away. The force of the strike threw him forward.

The monster roared. Black blood poured from its left eye and snout. Cuts decorated its leathery hide. Its bony plates were cracked. There were holes riddling its body. Wounds inflicted by the witch hunter's firearm. This rat-beast, whom Frau Fruehauf called a rat ogre, swung its claw at Lanric again. Lanric mustered his strength. With a grunt, he lifted his sword to repel the attack.

The rat ogre roared. Its claw cracked. One of its claw sailed over him, stabbing into the ground behind him. The rat ogre roared with rage. The warrior priest swung his warhammer, striking the rat ogre's bone-plated thigh. The plate cracked. The rat ogre roared once more as it raised its claws. It staggered. Its steely leg muscles coiled as it kicked to the back. Emmanuel screamed as he was flung back, his sword thrown from his hands.

Lanric saw Johannes lunge at the rat ogre. The watchman struck at the rat ogre's tail hard, trying to sever the limb. The tail split. Blood spurted, pooling at the ground and dust. The rat ogre lashed its tail at Johannes. Johannes narrowly evaded the mace-like growth. "Get up!" Brother Gottlieb growled as he held out his armored hand. The warrior priest suffered battle damage. His forehead was bleeding. His breastplate and mantle were chipped. There was a large gash on his side, splitting into his plate. Lanric grunted as he grabbed the warrior priest's gauntlet-covered palm. He hissed as he tried to stand. Pain in his ankle! Unbearable! He shuddered as he collapsed. "I can't," Lanric complained. "I can't stand!"

Brother Gottlieb glowered at the watchman. "But….Brother Gottlieb…." Lanric whined. The warrior priest uttered a prayer. His grasped the watchman's ankle. Lanric felt a warm glow. The pain dissipated. Lanric was surprised. What had happened? He gazed at the warrior priest. The warrior priest spoke with his strong voice, "Ye of weak Faith! Fight, with Faith renewed!"

Lanric blinked. A cloak flapped past him. As the rat ogre swung at Johannes, the witch hunter, rapier in hand, leaped onto and clambered up its chain. The rat ogre noticed the witch hunter. It swung its massive arm, trying to be rid of the pest. The witch hunter continued to hang onto the chain. As the chain sailed behind the rat ogre, the witch hunter leaped off. She caught the rat ogre's horn. She swung onto its back and plunged her rapier into its spine. The rat ogre let out an anguished roar. It flailed, trying to be rid of the witch hunter on its back. The witch hunter held onto the rapier; stubbornly refusing to release her grip.

The warrior priest roared fiercely as he charged the rat ogre. He swung at the rat ogre's groin. The rat ogre cried once more in anguish. It swung at the warrior priest. Brother Gottlieb held up his warhammer, blocking the attack. He was pushed back. He growled as he dug his greaves into the soil.

Lanric wobbly got onto his feet. "Attack the rat ogre from all sides…." he muttered. "Harry the rat ogre. Avoid its blows." These were the instructions of Frau Fruehauf. Having battled the rat ogre, he understood why she spoke these words. The rat ogre was easily distracted. It couldn't focus its attention at any one target.

Lanric gripped his sword tightly. He charged the rat ogre, his sword raised high. He could hear two gunshots. The rat ogre rammed into the wall. The witch hunter fell, crashed and bounced behind him. He could hear a loud crack, a hard slash. He ignored them all. He ran to the rat ogre and struck at its knee.

His sword bit into the steel-like flesh. His hand trembled. The flesh was tough as armour. His sword could barely penetrate a few layers of skin and muscle. He tried to withdraw the sword, to no avail. His sword was stuck! He could hear the creature's breath. He glanced upwards. He saw the monster's mighty claws raised over him.

The creature howled. It stumbled backwards. Lanric glimpse the mighty warrior priest smashing his hammer into its limbs. Emmanuel and Johannes charged at the rat ogre. Their swords sank into its flesh. The rat ogre roared again.

Lanric narrowly dodged a flailing claw. He caught the witch hunter dashing past him. She ducked as the claw sailed over her. She rolled forward. She recovered her footing, drew her straight-edged dagger, a poniard, from its scabbard, strapped to her slender thighs and stabbed her poniard into the creature's shin. She scurried away as the monster tried to stomp on her.

The rat ogre roared. It turned its attention to the witch hunter. It hunched, ready to charge. Lanric dashed at the rat ogre. He swung his sword into the rat ogre's snout.

He felt its claw colliding into his chest. He was flung back. He felt his ribs breaking. The rat ogre raised its claw, about to strike once more. Two gunshots! The rat ogre was struck in the neck and cheek. Its whiskers bristled as it reared up. It roared a tortured cry.

There was a loud crack. The rat ogre's knee gave way. Lanric saw why. The warrior priest had struck the rat ogre. He struck at the dagger buried in its shin. The rat ogre's battered shin could not support its mass. Bones jutted out violently from its flesh, spilling blood and exposing tendons. The rat ogre roared as it fell onto its knees.

Brother Gottlieb roared. His warhammer blazed with the light of retribution. He swung at the rat ogre's 'chin'. The rat ogre was thrown back. Its dagger-like fangs dislodged from its maw and clattered on the ground. Saliva rained down upon Lanric. The rat ogre collapsed onto its back. Lanric saw the tip of the witch hunter's rapier sticking out of its throat. The rat ogre's body fell limp.

However, the rat ogre was not dead. It wheezed. Its red eyes fluttered, trying to make sense of what was happening. The warrior priest leaped onto the monster's chest. He raised his warhammer high. He bellowed, "By Sigmar's Will, let this vile beast be ended!"

The Twin-tailed Comet streaked before Lanric, shattering the rat ogre's skull, reducing it to ruined paste. He raised his sword. He roared a pained but triumphant cry, his voice joined with his colleague's.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The Good Servants**

It was an early autumn morning. Salzenmund still slept. Its bells were silent. Morrslieb and its more brilliant twin, Mannslieb, still hung high in the sky, gracing the empty streets below with their eerie, sicklish and gentle glows respectively. The people of Salzenmund still slept behind closed doors, drawn curtains and spread mats, though for some, that might be their last sleep.

The only building still lit at this hour, barring the never-sleeping Gausser Keep and the ever busy Temple of Shallya, was that of the Watch headquarters, the narrow building tacked onto the side of an apartment. Yet, despite its apparent occupancy, it was silent as a grave. The witch hunter, Fruehauf, stood still within its main chamber. The desks were all back in their original positions. The Captain's Desk was missing. Some of the men she sent out had returned, empty-handed.

The witch hunter was still, unmoving, very much like a gargoyle. The watchmen did their best to avoid any direct eye contact with this little, bloodstained creature. They shivered, cowered, like naughty children discovered. They yelped. The witch hunter had moved, one grimy, blood-stained boot forward.

The witch hunter took another step. The watchmen retreated further. She advanced by yet another step, slowly, as though she was savouring the terror of her lessers. Eventually, after what seemed like a frightful eternity, she stood at the centre of the chamber. She gave a sweeping glance. The watchmen whimpered and cowered as they felt her eyes upon them briefly.

The witch hunter was still again. The watchmen sweated, despite the cold. They wheezed, gasping for air. Once again, they yelped, as the witch hunter broke the silence, her voice cold as the seeping wind.

"Explain."

"Still trying to keep up appearances, I see," said a voice with a snorting squeal. The watchmen and the witch hunter turned towards the door, to look upon the obese Captain Josef Aushwitz, his bloated figure filling up the doorway. The captain's lips curled, his face contorted into a mocking grin, "Fruehauf."

The captain strode towards the witch hunter, the sneer never leaving his face. "You have them fooled well, haven't you, Fruehauf?" he gloated as he walked past the haphazardly arranged desk. His steps stopped abruptly before the witch hunter.

The captain was huge, massive. He towered over the diminutive Fruehauf, his shadow swallowing her lithe form. Yet, the witch hunter's posture never wavered. Feeling her icy gaze, the captain's smile faded slightly. Josef Aushwitz dared himself to glare back at her with fierce intensity. His sneer widened and his leer intensified, "Well, not I! I had seen through the farce!"

"You think you can bully me into submitting to the will of the Town Council, do you, little girl? Pretending to be a big scary man in a hat!" said the captain, his fat arms raised over his head as he adjusted the brim of an imaginary hat. He puffed himself, making him seem even larger than he already was, as he sneered, "Well, it won't work on me! I know your tricks, Fruehauf. You are no witch hunter. Who in their right mind would recruit a little girl into the ranks of those heretic-burning fanatics?"

"How much did they pay you? Twenty crowns? A hundred? And where did you pick up that hat and cloak, little girl? From the bed? From the floor? Well, your play time is over! Go home! Go back to the whorehouse! Leave, before I decide to charge you for impersonating a…"

The captain's insolent words were drowned by a loud roar. Smoke shrouded the witch hunter as the scent of spent gunpowder engulfed the chamber. The captain's sneer vanished as his face contorted into a mask of pain. He crumpled, buckling under his own girth. He looked around, trying to see through the smoke, to make sense of what had happened. He gasped. He could see the blood on the floorboards, dotted with white fragments. He turned his gaze downwards, and his face turned pallid. The blood on the floorboard was his, gushing from the gaping wound on what was his knee.

He looked up and found himself staring into two rifled barrels. His mouth widened into a frightened wail. He flopped and squirmed on the bloodied floor. He pressed down onto his knee with his massive hands, trying to staunch the bleeding. He looked back at the witch hunter. Fruehauf loomed over him like a dreadful wraith. She watched him, studied him, like a fox appraising a mangled rabbit. "Help," mewled the captain as he squirmed away, towards one of the desks. "HELP!" he squealed at the top of his lungs.

The brutes Klaus and Edvard sprang into action, throwing themselves at the witch hunter. Klaus fell; his face met the edge of a desk. He cried as he writhed on the floor, caressing his shattered nose. Edvard groaned as he stumbled and crashed into the other desks. He whimpered as he clutched his bleeding shin.

The witch hunter stood still, her rapier now dripping with fresh blood. She turned her gaze towards the captain. The captain was still squirming, like a slug trying to escape the sun. She strode towards the captain, her footsteps light and silent as usual. She stood behind the captain, raised her boot and drove it into his back.

The captain squealed. The witch hunter raised her rapier, blade pointing downwards, and drove it into his shoulder. The captain squealed again. The witch hunter dug her heels into his back. Josef let out a blood-curding, ear-piercing squeal, much like a slaughtered pig. The watchmen cringed as they covered their ears, trying to stifle the horrible squeals.

The captain whimpered. "Mercy," his eyes watered as he pleaded. "Mercy, please." The witch hunter coldly responded by twisting her blade. The captain howled. The witch hunter kept her silence, letting his tortured cries settle upon the chamber. Aushwitz shivered, feeling the frigid intonation blowing from her cloak, "I will not suffer your insolence, captain."

The witch hunter withdrew her rapier. She studied her bloodied blade, and then she wrung the Captain's cloak and wiped the blood-stained blade upon it, before sheathing it under her cloak.

Fruehauf turned her gaze towards the other watchmen. The watchmen trembled as she addressed them coldly, "If you think my cause unjust, you are free to leave this room."

Silence fell upon the room. The witch hunter was still, her boot still planted firmly upon the squirming Josef Aushwitz. The watchmen looked at each other, looking for any signs of dissent. They shrugged and moved to shift the furniture back to her preferred configuration.

"William," Fruehauf called out and the aforementioned watchman stopped in his tracks. Visibly trembling, he looked to his colleagues for support, who backed away from him instead. Gulping, William slinked towards the witch hunter. "Adalbert, Kurt, Olaf, Ulfred," the witch hunter summoned and the aforementioned watchmen hurried to her call.

"Remove Aushwitz, Klaus and Edvard to the nearest hospice."

The witch hunter watched as Willian, Adalbert, Kurt and Olaf heaved the fallen captain and his cronies out of the door. As soon as the door closed with a click, she turned her gaze towards Emmanuel, Johannes and Lanric.

Lanric shivered, feeling a tingle upon his skin as the witch hunter strode towards them. She stopped before the group so suddenly Lanric almost cried out in surprise. The witch hunter silently appraised the motley group before speaking, "Emmanuel, Johannes and Lanric. Take a leave for the rest of the morning. See to your wounds. Report in at twelve."

Emmanuel blinked. He glanced briefly at his colleagues, and back at the witch hunter. He spoke, his head bowed, his eyes lowered, "But Frau, we are healed!"

"Sigmar graced us with his blessings and healed us of our wounds! We are able of body and..." The witch hunter interrupted, "That is an order." Emmanuel gaped, wearing the look of having being slapped. His mouth opened and closed and opened again, before finally closing, having decided to stay his tongue. He bowed just a little lower and gave his answer, "As you wish, Milady."

Emmanuel raised himself and walked towards the door. Johannes followed him without saying a word. Lanric glanced at the witch hunter. He could see the witch hunter's ponytail swishing, her dark shroud billowing, as she turned her back towards him and surveyed the chamber. He then looked at his fellow colleagues. The watchmen were hard at work, in the process of executing the orders from the previous evening. However, despite the frantic activity, he could feel an oppressive weight in the chamber. The scene quite reminded him of a hospice, during the height of a red pox outbreak. Lanric glanced back at Emmanuel and Johannes. They had already vacated the premise. He clutched his chest and hurried after them, through the slowly closing door.

* * *

The Temple of Shallya, dedicated to the Goddess of Mercy, Healing and Childbirth, sat in the very centre of the Slums District. It was a very spartan medium-sized structure. Many years' worth of soot had accumulated and stained the plastered walls. With a glance, nobody would have realized that its walls used to be white. However, unlike the dilapidation that surrounded it, the streets leading into the Temple compounds was regularly swept clean. The Temple was built around a courtyard, whose stone paths and dried up lawn was free of any rubbish or debris. Lying at its very centre was a fountain, symbolizing the tears of its patron. However, due to neglect, its waters had long dried up. Just before it was the chapel and enclosing this courtyard were two structures, one of them a hospice and the other, an orphanage. There were no gates, nor walls, nor fences enclosing the establishment. A show that any and all supplicants, patients and other visitors are welcomed into the temple.

Even in such an early morning, the temple was a hotbed of activity. The temple staff, women of all ages clad in white robes and hood, moved purposefully and tirelessly from one groaning patient to another, providing supplication and healing. Some of them had a weary look to them. This was hardly surprising, what with the groans and cries of torment that filled its halls. With so much suffering within and without these walls, the dedicated priestesses of Shallya had not the luxury of rest.

Lanric grunted as he felt bandages tightened around his chest. His attendant, whom Lanric assumed must be an initiate from the shine of youth upon her fair skin, whispered a solemn prayer as she lifted his ankle. Lanric shook his head. The initiate did not even glance at him, preferring to look for wounds or any signs of injury instead. Emmanuel sat bare-chested opposite of him. The man had numerous scars, some fine and some hideous, riddled all over his well-toned physiques. A more senior priestess cautiously poked and prodded at his chest, attempting to diagnose what ailed him. His neatly combed hair, parted in the middle, and tied up in a ponytail, looked dishevelled. Probably from the sweat, Lanric thought. Emmanuel ignored the priestess, preferring to stare at the ceiling. Lanric clenched his teeth as he felt the initiate twisted his ankle back into position. Suddenly, Emmanuel declared, "I decided. We will not be investigating the warehouse."

"Wait, I thought the original plan was to take the initiative and try to impress the witch hunter?" Lanric asked, his voice lowered to a whisper. Emmanuel looked at his younger colleague and frowned. He looked around himself, leaned forward and whispered, "Yes, that was the original plan. However, after some thought, I had to ask myself, 'Why did Frau Fruehauf not break into the warehouse?'"

"Perhaps she thought that the warehouse was a false lead?" Lanric suggested. "Unlikely," spoke a softer voice. Lanric turned to the boy-faced watchman, Johannes. Johannes shrugged, "If she thought it was a false lead, why would she personally patrol its perimeter three times?"

"Then all the more reason we should investigate! Go in, find any signs of foul play and then report in!" said Lanric as he pounded his fist into his open arm. He grimaced and held his ribs. The initiate panicked as she frantically attempted to ease his pain. After a while of wheezing, Lanric continued, "She will then see our value! We can leave a good impression! This will..."

Emmanuel shook his head. "And if we found nothing, what then? The witch hunter will probably think that we either warned the cultists with our clumsiness or we were in cahoots with them! You saw what she did to Captain Aushwitz! She crippled him for insolence and treason! And that was considered merciful. You know full well that the punishment for treason is death!"

"Merciful!" Lanric exclaimed as he threw his arms in the air. He felt the stabbing pain in his ribs and he bowled over and moaned. The initiate shook her head disapprovingly as she straightened his back and reset his ribs. Lanric, though pained, continued to give his piece, "Merciful? Hah! You call THAT merciful? The swine will never walk right ever again, if he can walk at all! Cruelty, more like! I rather die than to be an invalid like him!"

"You are not him, Herr Schwart," Johannes deadpanned. Lanric frowned at Johannes. Emmanuel sighed, "Well, you saw what she did. What do you think she will do to us if she suspected collaboration on our part?"

Lanric kept silent. Emmanuel was right. However, he was unwilling to accept the decision.

"So what are we to do then?" Lanric asked. "We will stay put. Await orders," Emmanuel stated. "Nobody does anything independently without consulting me first. We are now in a tight spot. What with the witch hunter on our backs. The last thing we need is to draw her suspicion." "Then what about Giselbert?" Lanric asked again a little more forcefully. "Are we going to just leave him out to dry?"

Emmanuel gave Lanric a stern, hard look. Lanric stuttered before averting his gaze. Emmanuel sighed as he continued, "I do not leave my men 'out to dry'. We will have Giselbert stand down and lay low. I will think of something."

Lanric roughly put on his leather jack and his boots and got up. "Where are you going, Lanric?" Emmanuel asked. "I'm looking for Giselbert," Lanric replied. "He should know about the current situation." Emmanuel merely nodded, "Tell him to keep his head down and lay low. Restrain him if you have to, Lanric."

Lanric gave Emmanuel a puzzled look. Emmanuel stared back. After a while, he smiled, perhaps for the first time in a while. Lanric relaxed as the senior watchman laughed softly. He chuckled, "Oh, you know what I meant. You were his partner! You should know better than anyone how he always gets himself into trouble!"

* * *

Giselbert grumbled as he pulled the thin, dirty rag over himself, trying to stifle the bite of the autumn wind and to ward off the smell of ashes. He was tired. His bones and muscles were aching. He could still feel the pain in his left hand. He wondered if he was still bleeding. However, he did not bother checking up on his arm. He was tired, his whole body stiff like a log. Last night's exertion had taken its toll.

Under normal circumstances, Giselbert would be snoring aloud. Unfortunately, this was not the usual circumstances. He was sleeping, or at least trying to, outdoors, out in the open air, exposed to the elements. Furthermore, the sunlight gracing his cheeks and the sound of the streets conspired to keep him awake. No matter how many sacks he put over his head, the sunlight leaked through, the noise continued.

With a grunt, Giselbert stirred to consciousness. His eyelids lifted, slowly and reluctantly. His vision was blurry but he could make out the shape of a roof, and the figure of a broad-shouldered person.

Giselbert's eyes snapped open. His arms swept under the rags, groping for his skinning knife. He cried, feeling a boot planted firmly in his face.

"I found another one!" cried the broad-shouldered man, brandishing his beating stick.

Giselbert cried as the broad stick struck him in the skull. "No sleeping on the job!" the broad-shouldered man shouted. He swung his stick once more, striking Giselbert at the side of his face. Giselbert clenched his teeth as he rubbed his swollen cheeks. Confusion was written clearly on his face. From what he could see, his attacker had a very broad shoulder and his arms were thick as tree-trunks, dressed in the trappings of a stevedore. The stevedore raised his beating stick again as he yelled, "Get to work!"

Giselbert, painfully, rise from the ground and onto his feet. As he did so, he glimpsed the tattoo of a blue anchor on the stevedore's meaty shoulder. "The Anchors," he thought.

Giselbert was struck again.

The former watchman groaned as he looked for his attacker. His attacker, also holding the beating stick, was standing behind him. Unlike the stevedore, this man was shorter and slimmer and did not have the look of someone accustomed to harsh labour. His black, twirly moustache was too well kept and his leather jacket was too neat. "The foreman," Giselbert surmised.

Giselbert was shoved out into the open. Giselbert grunted as he gazed at the Anchor and the foreman. He was tempted to scowl, but he knew to do so was to invite trouble. If there was a stevedore and a foreman here, that must mean…

Giselbert sniffed at the air. He could smell the scent of the river and a heavy fog of sweat. He could hear the gulls, the grunting of stevedores and the tensioning of ropes. That was enough. He knew he was in one of the warehouses of the Docks District.

The Anchor hit Giselbert once more. He sneered, showing his crooked teeth and swollen gum. "No dawdling around!" Giselbert let a low growl. The Anchor, sensing hostility, growled back as he raised his stick high. Giselbert and the Anchor glared at each other. After a while, Giselbert hunched slightly and slowly backed away. The Anchor relaxed, lowering his beating stick.

Giselbert followed the foreman and the Anchor ganger. He found the River Salz spread before him. There were three large merchant ships docked by the wharf. Dockers hurriedly heaved barrels and crates onto the jetties and onto the ships. Wagons entered and exited the wharf almost constantly. For Giselbert, this looked like a typical busy day in the Docks District.

Giselbert paused as he surveyed his surroundings. He could glimpse the seal of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild on one of the crates. He then looked at the other crates and realized that they too bore the seal.

Giselbert yelped as he felt the beating stick flogging his back. The foreman and the stevedore had noticed that Giselbert idled, and were intent in beating the laziness out of him. Giselbert grimaced. He quickly looked around, trying to find a way out of his predicament. He spied a group of stevedores dragging a cart and jogged to join them.

* * *

It was a solemn and gloomy Marktag afternoon. Merchants and wagon drivers warily watched the alleyways as they carry their merchandises to the marketplace. Halberdiers, clad in dark blue greatcoats, travelled in pairs, ready to strike down any troublemakers they find. A few womenfolk shuffled in tightly-knit groups, accompanied by their bodyguards. A large crowd gathered around a herald, who delivered the Town Council's announcements about the recent massacres, in a form more palatable to the masses. And from the response of the townspeople, it seemed he was failing dismally.

"Act of revolutionaries my foot!" one of the townspeople muttered. "It's the elves I say!" cried another. "What nonsense!"

In their vicinity, and ignoring their outbursts, stood two watchmen. Emmanuel, the taller watchman with leonine features, was gawking at the roof of the Watch headquarters. He could see murders of ravens cawing as they roosted on the windowsills and rooftops and circled over the headquarters. Sure, he had seen ravens before, usually mobbing around carcasses or picking away at the numerous garbage piles along the streets, but he never remembered seeing this many ravens, nor did he recall ever seeing them around the headquarters.

The door suddenly swung open, almost hitting Emmanuel. Emmanuel scowled at the watchman who had exited the premise. His scowl quickly faded, as he beheld the young and beautiful Lieutenant, Hansel Aushwitz, storming out of the establishment. His face was flushed and his bloodshot eyes were tearing up. Emmanuel was puzzled. This was the first time he saw Hansel being upset.

Emmanuel and Johannes entered the headquarters. Their arrival was greeted with a simple "G'day," from the elderly clerk, Julius Schreiber. Emmanuel blinked. The clerk looked fidgety, glancing around the corner every so often. This was the first time he saw the clerk this nervous. Emmanuel opened his mouth, about to comment on his present state. He paused. He closed his mouth, deciding to keep his comments to himself.

Within the chamber proper, there stood the witch hunter, Fruehauf. She was standing before a large map, which was spread over the left wall. The witch hunter, noticing the watchmen's approach, turned towards them.

The witch hunter studied Emmanuel. Emmanuel felt his pulse quickened, his breathing growing heavier. He struggled to maintain his composure. The witch hunter's ponytail swayed lightly, as she turned to look at Johannes. After a while, she spoke, her voice that of winter breeze, "Where is Lanric?"

"Lanric's injuries were such that he requires the whole day off," Emmanuel answered while trying to keep his voice level. The witch hunter replied with stillness, her posture betraying no movement, no gestures.

Emmanuel fidgeted as he engaged the witch hunter in a sort of a staring contest. He jumped, startled, for the witch hunter had spoken suddenly, "I have an assignment for you, Emmanuel and Johannes."

The witch hunter was pointing at the map, her slender finger stabbed into a red circle. "There had been three murders last night. No witnesses, doors locked from the inside. I had dispatched all the other watchmen to investigate. You and Johannes will be investigating this particular crime scene," briefed the witch hunter. She then produced a small parchment and handed it to Emmanuel. "This is the address."

Emmanuel glanced at the map. He laid his attention at the warehouse. "What about the warehouse?" he asked. The witch hunter paused for a moment. She then spoke, her voice colder than usual. Cold enough to chill him to the bone, thought Emmanuel.

"Do not concern yourself with the warehouse. You have your orders."

* * *

Bounty Road. One of the many streets of the Market District. This length of street was flanked by rows upon rows of shophouses. On usual days, the smell of freshly baked goods and pastries will linger in the air. Along with the chatter of the townspeople, the street performances of the buskers and minstrels and the occasional quark medicine-men, this place had a warm and welcome atmosphere.

Not this day however. The Flagellant Riots did not spare Bounty Road. The comforting smell of baked goods and pastries were gone, replaced with the smell of ashes and dust. Many of the shophouses were boarded up. Piles of debris were still scattered on the brick road. Burning pyres and smothering debris took the place of the buskers and minstrels. The cheerful work songs were replaced with the howling of distant heralds. Grim-faced halberdiers marched along this length of road. The townspeople were still present, but in lesser numbers. They still chattered, but the contents of their conversations were grim.

Most of them had gathered around one of the shops. This shop, with the sign 'Annelie's', was mostly unscathed from the riots. However, it was clear something had happened in the shop. The door was broken, hacked into pieces. Two halberdiers stood vigilant, their weapons crossed at the broken door.

The townspeople gossiped amongst each other. Why was the shop silent, they asked? Where was the young couple who owned the shop? What happened to them? However, the lips of the halberdiers were sealed. Without information, the townspeople had to rely upon their wild imagination to fill in the blanks.

"Give way! Give way!" Emmanuel cried as he pushed his way through the crowd. The crowd gave him dirty looks, which he ignored. "Watchmen?" he could hear one of them say. "I hope that he is better than the first one who showed up."

Emmanuel and Johannes cleared the crowd, albeit with a little difficulty. The bystanders seemed quite reluctant to give way. And unless Emmanuel imagined it, a few of them had purposely blocked their path. No matter. They were here now. It was time to get to work. "Hail!" he greeted the halberdiers. The halberdiers merely grunted. One of them seemed to shoot Emmanuel a dirty look. "I hope you will do a much better job than that pretty boy," one of the halberdiers grunted as he shifted his halberd away from the broken door. Emmanuel listened and nodded. So Hansel was the one who handled this crime scene. This would explain why he looked upset.

"What did the Lieutenant do?" Emmanuel asked. The halberdier snorted, "The most stupid, most ignorant thing only conceivable by a noble! First, he kept," the halberdier paused for a moment before continuing, injecting as much venom as he could, "_fondling_ the corpses. Next, he cut open the sacks of flour like a maniac! And he almost killed the rest of us trying to light his pipe soon after that!" The halberdier's partner sighed and replied, "Well, Roche, to be fair, neither of us were aware of this thing we call 'Dust Explosion' until the sergeant told us about it. Didn't you call the sergeant a 'Dirt Farmer' when he ordered us to start one?"

"Well, aye," Roche shuffled uncomfortably as he looked down trying to hide his face, "Yeah….well…it worked alright. Blew up those daemon-worshipers, along with the mill. I think the sergeant still hates me, though." "There is no doubt that the sergeant hates you for calling him a 'Dirt Farmer'," the halberdier's partner chuckled. "You were the one who got assigned with the dangerous task of dropping the torch. I'm surprised you are still alive." "And half my hair got singed and I am assigned cistern and outhouse duty for a month. Dirty farmer!" Roche grumbled. The halberdier's partner grinned wickedly, "Tell me about that time you cleaned Gausser's bucket." Roche snapped, "Go to hell, Karl!"

"Look," Emmanuel sighed, his face visibly darkened as he listened to the halberdiers discussing their time fighting in the hell that was the Storm of Chaos, "I appreciate your willingness to share your stories. Really, I do. I like to stay a while and listen about what 'fun and games' I had missed by not enlisting, but neither of us wants to stand here for too long in the cold. The sooner we are done with this, the sooner we can go get us a few tankards of warmed ale."

"So, can we get to work now?"

"Right," Roche nodded in agreement. "Let's get to it then," Emmanuel said as he turned to Johannes. "Johannes. Go talk to the neighbours, see if they heard or saw anything," Emmanuel ordered. Johannes nodded in affirmation. The senior watchman then turned to the halberdiers, "Roche, was it? Get Doktor Koch."

Roche, arched his brow. He protested, "Look, watchman. We are paid to stand here and keep the bystanders out, not run errands." Emmanuel sighed, "If you would just do me that favour, I will treat you to beer and sausages at the Skinned Cat Tavern. How does that sound?" Hearing Emmanuel's offer, Roche loosened up and laughed heartily. "Really? Why didn't you say so? Will you treat o' Karl here too?" Karl pointed at his partner. "Yes, yes, beer and sausages for your friend as well. So, how about it?" Emmanuel asked. "Well, no problem. Just give me the address and I'll go find him."

* * *

Emmanuel stepped through the shattered door. Other than the pieces of broken door fragments, the inside of the bakery showed no signs of any strange or suspicious activity. Seeing nothing of interest, Emmanuel decided to investigate the basement, where the cadavers laid. The basement door was opened, with an opened lock and showing no signs of violence. Dreading what he might find, he took a deep breath, lit his lantern and walked in.

He cautiously walked down the stairs, wary of any footprints or signs of use. The stairs creaked and groaned. The moment his boots touched the cold, stone ground, a light dust obscured his sights. The senior watchman coughed lightly as he waved the dust away. He squinted as he raised his lantern.

True enough, there were two corpses, lightly covered in white and gray dust, lying on the basement floor. There were also a large number of split sacks, spilling the flour all over the storage room. Emmanuel had expected the dust, having heard the halberdiers mentioning Hansel scattering baking powder in search of clues and all. What he did not expect, however, was the large hole in the wall directly opposite of him. The hole was about man-sized and was blocked by debris. "The culprits dug through the walls?" Emmanuel thought. He reminisced of his time in the sewers. The skaven dug their way through the sewer walls. Perhaps there was skaven involvement?

Emmanuel cautiously walked to the corpses. One male, one female. Both looked about twenty. Both wore the expression of shock and anguish. If his children were still alive, they would be about their age, Emmanuel reckoned. His heart felt heavy. He could feel his blood boiling. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to focus at the task at hand.

The senior watchman noted that the corpses were lying on their backs. There was a rolling pin and a broken lantern lying a short distance away from the male. He noticed that both of them had their throat slit, their pajamas and night gown cut open in the front, and a sigil carved into their chests. He also noticed dark stains on the floor, some distance from where they fell. No doubt they were shifted from where they fell. Most likely the cultists turned the corpse around. However, was this where they originally fell? Or did Hansel move them here?

Emmanuel shone his lantern at the floor, wanting to see if he can find anything else. There were metallic fragments scattered around the floor, apparently propelled from a central point. Emmanuel ran a rough estimate and slowly brushed away the dust from one of the spots, wherein he found scorch marks.

"Explosives!" thought Emmanuel. He glanced at the victims, "But the victims were not burnt or thoroughly maimed! What devilry is this?"

"Herr Marx," a cool voice spoke. Emmanuel turned to greet Johannes. "Welcome back, what had you found?" he asked. "The neighbours saw nothing outside the bakery. However, they mentioned that they saw a light and moving downwards from the second floor, into the first floor and then disappeared," Johannes reported. "The victims were probably awoken by the sound of digging..." Emmanuel pointed at the hole, "...lit a lantern and came into the basement to investigate." "Looks like they were expecting trouble too," Johannes gestured at the rolling pin. "Bet they did not expect the cultists bursting from the walls though."

"The neighbour next door reported hearing something. They say that it went 'Crack-crack-crack, crack-crack-crack'." "Sounds like at least three attackers," Emmanuel pondered. "You say 'crack-crack-crack'?" Johannes nodded in affirmation. "Human-work," Emmanuel said with certainty. "Not skaven?" Johannes asked. "Skaven dig with their claws. It will not go 'crack-crack-crack'. You heard them scratching in the walls, remember? This sound was the sound of tools striking the earth." "How did you know it was the work of three people?" Johannes, still sceptical, asked again. "Three continuous strikes, pause, three continuous strikes," Emmanuel answered.

"Ah….is this the place?"

The watchmen turned towards the stairs. The fidgety man before them was balding. His face was rough and devoid of any facial hair. He was wearing a white, blood-stained apron and a black, tattered cloak. The pocket on his apron contained a variety of silver tools. A black, leather bag hanged on his side.

"Doktor Koch," Emmanuel greeted. "Thank you for taking some of your time to come here. I imagine you had been busy?" "Busy I am. Had to go to another two crime scenes earlier today. But I will not miss coming here," grinned the physician while rubbing his hands vigorously. "So, those were the bodies?" Emmanuel nodded. "Right. Better get to work," the physician said as he put on his pair of leather gloves.

"Keep an eye on the Doktor. Make sure he doesn't get too...excited," Emmanuel instructed as the physician started on his grim task. "I'm going up to the second floor."

* * *

Herr Doktor Koch slid a blood-stained swab cautiously into a bottle. Johannes noticed the physician putting a stopper on the small bottle and replacing his tools, and chose this time to make his inquiry, "So, Herr Doktor. What have you got?" "Ah, yes. The corpses. Herr...Eisenhower, was it?" the rough-faced physician replied. "I'm sorry, but I'm really bad with names," Doktor Koch chuckled. The young boy-faced watchman, Johannes Eisenhower, shook his head disapprovingly, "Took you three tries to get it right, Doktor. So, what have you got?" "I think it will be better if I write you a report, but I need a place with some light," the Doktor gestured at his surroundings. "And a table!"

The physician and the watchman sat at the counter at the first floor. While the windows of the bakery were not covered, there was not enough light coming through, necessitating the use of the lantern. The physician and the watchman discussed the condition of the corpses, as the physician wrote his report. "Judging by the temperature of the rectum and the rest of the body, I judged that nine hours had passed since their deaths," said the physician, his raspy voice almost indistinguishable from the sound of his scribbling. Johannes blinked. He simply did not understand some of the words uttered by the Doktor. Ignoring his confusion, Doktor Koch continued, "However, there was a discrepancy with the livor mortis. The volume of blood spilled and the livor mortis simply did not add up, so I checked up on blood volume of the corpses. There was far too little blood in the bodies. I further examined the wound in the neck. The wound was thin, but the edges were not clean and there were presence of debris."

Johannes was now completely confused. Livor mortis? Rectum? "I'm afraid I do not understand, Doktor," said the watchman.

Doktor Koch blinked. He then answered, "The victims died at three in the morning, Herr Eisenhower. I know this because of some tests..." Johannes sighed as he rubbed his forehead, "Don't tell me about the tests. Just tell me the results." "...Right," Doktor Koch sighed in disappointment. "Now then...the victims died at three in the morning. The neck wound was thin, but the edges were rough. I noticed debris in the wound..." Realizing that Johannes did not understand the term, he then added, "Debris as in tiny bits of flesh." Johannes blinked. He paused for a moment before saying, "Please continue." "Also, there was a lack of blood in the body. It did not, however, correspond with the bloodstains on the ground. I also noticed a lack of blood clots in the wounds."

"Blood clots?" Johannes was once again confused. Doktor Koch sighed again and rubbed his forehead. "How do I say..." he murmured. "Right, you know how blood always seems to curdle and dry up?" Johannes nodded. "We call that blood clotting. However, blood always clot once exposed to air. I found no such thing in the wounds."

"What does that mean, Doktor" Johannes asked. "I suspect the use of a blood thinner, but I will need to run some tests," the physician pondered. Realizing that Johannes probably did not understand the term, he added, "Blood thinner is a type of concoction that prevents the blood from clotting, so the wound would continue to bleed."

"And the blood did not...errr...clot, yes?" Johannes asked for confirmation. "Yes, Herr Eisenhower," nodded the physician. "So the victims were deliberately bled dry?" "It would seem so." "And there was less blood spilled than expected?" Johannes asked for confirmation. "Much less. Probably drained and collected," nodded the physician. "But why bleed the victims and collect the blood?" inquired Johannes. "Many reasons, Herr Eisenhower. Blood tests maybe. There are many curiosities about the blood itself. Don't let its simple appearance fool you..." the physician answered. Upon realizing that he had just implicated himself, he swiftly added, "And no, I wouldn't dream of studying human blood. I will prefer to study cow blood. Easier to acquire and in larger quantities too."

"Also less suspicious to witch hunters."

"Not accusing you for anything, Herr Doktor," assured the watchman. "Ah...ah...good to know," Doktor Koch eased himself. "So...is that all?" Johannes asked. The physician perked up, "Well, I still have to prepare the report. I think I need to rewrite everything."

"You watchmen wouldn't be interested in the tests I run anyway," the physician shrugged dejectedly. "Oh what a waste. So many wonderful things to learn...Oh!" The physician tensed again. The watchman, surprised by his sudden exclamation, gasped, "What?" "I forgot to mention! Just like the other two crime scenes, I had detected dust in the nostrils and all the way down to the throat!"

Johannes arched his brow, "Dust?" "Yes! Yes! Dust! And the floor was also covered in dust!" clarified the physician. Johannes rubbed his chin, contemplating on this detail. "Doktor, do you have bottles?"

"Oh, of course. I always carry bottles with me. You know, for collecting blood and other bodily fluids? So, what size do you want? Small, medium or large?" Doktor Koch offered.

* * *

Johannes pondered upon the physician's report as he slowly walked up the narrow stairs. Thin neck wound. Flesh bits in the cut. Just like Ludwig's neck wound, if the report Lanric gave to him and Emmanuel was accurate. This implied the use of thin, serrated blades. Then there was the sigil. He had no doubt that the ones who killed the couple, whom the neighbours named Frideric and Annelie, were the same ones who murdered Ludwig Bachmeier and the ones responsible for the Backalley Massacre.

What disturbed him were the tunnel and the dust. He imagined the heretics digging into the shop. However, where were they digging from? The sewers? Also, what about the dust? Dust in the nostrils and down the throat? Is it a means of incapacitation? After he found Emmanuel, he will be sending this bottle of dust, safely kept in his pouch, to the alchemists. He was certain there was more to this dust than meets the eye.

Johannes slowly walked down the hallway. He noticed a door slightly ajar. He inhaled and exhaled deeply and cautiously pushed the door open. He found Emmanuel standing before a table in the room. He stepped through the open door. A brief glance told him that he was in the victim's bedroom. The bed was unmade. It seemed as though the victims had just gotten up from the bed and neglected to tidy it up. The shutters were closed. Very little light could get through. The sole source of illumination was the Emmanuel's lantern, which was on the table beside the bed.

"Herr Marx," Johannes spoke. "Doktor Koch has completed his examination." The younger watchman produced and unrolled a parchment. "Judging by the temperature of the body, Doktor Koch placed their time of demise at around three in the morning. There was a presence of debris in the throat wound, suggesting the use of serrated or wavy blades…Herr Marx?"

Emmanuel was still. He did not reply. There was no indication that he was listening. Johannes blinked. He opened his mouth, about to speak louder.

"...Kaldezeit 22, 2532 I.C., Aubentag..."

Johannes stopped. The senior watchman spoke. There was no comfort in his voice. He watched his colleague and former superior warily. He noticed that the senior watchman was trembling as he continued his recitation.

"...Dear Diary. Frideric had ideas for a new kind of bread. Almond bread, he called them. It was a success. The aroma was magnificent. The neighbours flocked into the bakery. The bread sold like hot cakes. They never stopped praising my darling about the bread.

Kaldezeit 21, 2532 I.C., Wellentag. Dear Diary. Frideric bought me flowers today. Roses. Red as my cheeks, he said. He is such a darling."

"Her Marx?" Johannes asked, concerned.

"Kaldezeit Day 20, 2532 I.C., Festag," Emmanuel Marx turned around to regard his colleague. His small eyes were red, his face was flushed. Johannes thought Emmanuel looked like he was about to lunge at him and strangle him. The senior watchman clutched a leather-bound book in his hands. "Frideric took me to the woods just outside Salzenmund today. It was beautiful. The red leaves fall like red snow. The smell was wonderful..." Emmanuel Marx continued to recite the contents of the diary, as the book itself slid from his trembling hands. Johannes, feeling threatened, slowly backed away.

"...This bakery was owned by a young, happily married couple. They were so happy. They were so happy together, looking forward towards a brighter future," Emmanuel spoke mournfully.

"Herr Marx..." Johannes spoke as the senior watchman walked past him. "Look, I know what this is about, but you can't..."

"They were so young. So full of hope," Emmanuel slammed his fist against the wall. "And the heretics ended that hope!" Johannes jumped, shocked by the hate and the fury in the senior watchman's voice. "The heretics! Those vile snakes! They must be stopped! And I swear to Sigmar and to Verena, they will be stopped!"

* * *

"Haul!" Giselbert tugged at the rope. "Haul!" the other stevedores tugged at the ropes in perfect synchrony. "Haul away, Karl!" the leader of this group cried. The voices of the other stevedores joined his voice as the massive crate dangled over the ship's haul. "Easy! Easy!" shouted the foreman as the group slowly lowered the crate onto the hull, right on top of another group of stevedores, eager to move the cargo into the lower deck.

Giselbert panted as he wiped the sweat off his brow. His face was flushed. The wound on his left arm was aching. The cuts on his arms and face were inflamed. He felt his own hands trembling. Giselbert reached for his hip flask and attempted to drain its contents. A single drop touched his tongue. The former watchman swore as he shook his flask.

The former watchman panted as he limped towards the shades. His legs tingled as he lowered himself to the ground. He sat, cross legged, and laid his back against a stack of crates. He looked up to the sky. What little sunlight that peeked through the voluminous autumn clouds had mostly faded. He could hear the tolling of the bell of the Ports Authority Building. He lifted his right hand and balled it into a fist. He slowly opened his fingers, one at a time, until all he could see was his ragged open palm. He then folded his fingers again, one at a time. This he did until he had four open fingers and one folded thumb. He laid his head against the wall. "That…is the sixteenth bell," he whispered to himself. The day was almost over.

Giselbert turned his dark eyes towards the gangs of stevedores. The stevedores were laughing, patting each other's backs, discussing their plans for the evening. However, there was more to that show of happiness and celebration. Giselbert could see it. And he knew that the stevedores, even without his keen sense, could feel it.

They were afraid. He knew. He could see the dark lines under their eyes, the strained smiles that offered no warmth or comfort, the unfocused eyes. No doubt they fear this might be their last night. It was admirable how they could sound so cheerful. Or perhaps that was why they tried so hard to sound cheerful.

Giselbert averted his gaze from the crowd, rolling his eyes towards the darkening sky. When he was much younger, he did some stevedoring. The hours were very long and the pay was paltry. Giselbert reminded himself not to slip into nostalgia. He contemplated upon what he had witnessed, comparing it to his stevedoring experiences.

The sewers led him here. The stevedores were loading most of the cargo directly from the wagons. As he recalled, the merchants' cargo, usually from the suppliers, were stored in the warehouse for a time before it was shipped out. The fact that these crates were loaded onto the ships directly from the wagon implied that the merchant was in a hurry to ship the goods out. He supposed that the ships will set sail tomorrow morning.

He had taken a very good look at the crates he helped haul onto the ships. All of them bore the seal of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild. Giselbert had a feeling that the answers he sought may be found in these crates.

Giselbert pondered upon his next course of action. His thoughts turned murky, confused, disorganized. His head was throbbing, burning up. "So the exertion had finally caught up with me," he thought darkly as he held his head in his trembling hands.

"Wages! Come collect your wages!" the foreman cried out as he waved his pouches vigorously. Giselbert could hear the loud jingling in those pouches. The stevedores gathered around the foreman like crows over scraps. The foreman shouted for order. "Get in line or no wages for you!"

An Anchor, the same Anchor who beat him, pushed his way through the crowd. He was followed by six other stevedores, also bearing the tattoos. The other stevedores fell silent and slowly backed away. The Anchor leading this gang looked around. His lips curled into a grin, revealing his crooked teeth. He shouted hoarsely, "Right lads! Free drinks! On me!"

There was a brief moment of silence. The stevedores looked at each other for a moment before deciding to cheer loudly, "Free drinks!"

Giselbert, however, was less enthusiastic. He knew the Anchors. They were not only into stevedoring, they also dabbled in racketeering, smuggling and various other illegal activities. These were violent, cruel and rough men. They were not the generous sorts. He knew there was a scheme brewing.

However, thought Giselbert darkly, they will most probably gather in his very destination, the tavern known as the Nordland XI.

* * *

The Nordland XI. Distinct and unique. Very hard to miss and very easy to remember. It was famous enough in the Northern Provinces that it could be a landmark of its own right. There were, after all, no other taverns in the Barony of Nordland or the rest of the Northern Provinces which had the front-most hull of a battleship as its entrance.

The Nordland XI was the most popular haunt in the Docks District of Nordland, mostly thanks to the great business sense of its proprietor. Being a stone's throw away from most warehouses and docks, it was the first stop for any sailor after a hard journey and stevedores after a day of hard work.

The stevedores who patronized the tavern were swinging their tankards and singing bawdy songs. Giselbert could not catch the lyrics, but he could catch references to whores and some unpleasant disease. "Those simple-minded idiots," thought Giselbert, shaking his head. He raised his tankard and sip on the frothy beverage within. He turned his glances towards the Anchors. He could see some of them playing a high stakes game of dice with the other stevedores. They jeered or laughed, depending on whom fickle Ranald decided to smile upon. They may assume the appearance of gracious hosts, despite fortunes won or lost, but the leer in their eyes did not escape Giselbert's notice. Giselbert shook his head again and muttered, "Those simple-minded idiots."

He knew the Anchors well. He had tangled with them often enough to know their methods. The Anchors intended to eventually pressure them into joining the gang, that much he was certain. However, the former watchman was more curious about the absence of the other kind of patron.

As far as Giselbert knew, backed up by his experiences breaking up tavern brawls as a watchman, sailors tend to flock in taverns closest to their ships. There was a notable absence of sailors in this tavern. He thought of the merchant ships currently docked just outside the warehouse. If the merchant wanted the ships to sail early tomorrow morning, this place should be packed with sailors. At least until curfew starts.

The former watchman grumbled as he held his forehead. He could feel himself burning up. He felt the need for a drink or three. He hunched over the counter, resting his head on the offensively clean desk. A tankard slammed before him, spilling some of the golden nectar within onto his forehead. Giselbert grunted as he peered from behind his arms.

The tavern master who served his drinks was a very broad and very powerfully-built man. He could see three savage scars on his face, which ripped off a chunk of the bridge of his nose and his beard. Giselbert could see that the man was missing his right arm, which was replaced with a wooden prosthetic. The former watchman never met this man before, but he had heard rumours about him.

Ernst Bismarck, the famous proprietor of the Nordland XI. Giselbert heard that he was once the Commander of the ill-fated battleship Nordland XI. Giselbert watched the tavernmaster limp as he busied himself with the beer barrels behind him. Giselbert could hear the tap-tap-tapping against the floorboards as the tavernmaster limped towards another patron. "Wooden peg," he thought.

Giselbert noticed the dull grumbling in his belly. He raised his arm and shouted, trying to catch the tavernmaster's attention. Ernst limped towards him and asked, "What can I get for ye?" "I'm hungry. Get me some gruel," Giselbert grunted.

The tavernmaster watched Giselbert with a frown. Giselbert tensed up. He slid his arm under the counter, fingering the hilt of his skinning knife. Suddenly, catching Giselbert by surprise, the tavernmaster laughed heartily, "Gruel? You look like you could eat a cow! Why, I think I should get you our finest steak! Fit for the Emperor's table!" Ernst said as he limped towards the kitchen. Giselbert raised his voice and voiced his objection, "But I ain't got the coins!"

"Don't you worry, boy! I'm putting it under the Hannes's tab! Hey, Matthias! Prepare the Helga's Special Flank Steak!" Ernst shouted into the kitchen. Giselbert, alarmed, quickly stood up and caught the tavernmaster by the collar. The tavernmaster gave Giselbert a surprised look as the former watchman pulled him down to the counter. "Don't do that!" Giselbert whispered in alarm. "You will indebt me to the Anchors! You know what they are like when they come to collect!" Ernst gave Giselbert an incredulous look. He then grinned and chuckled, "Hey, you are smarter than you look."

"But had you been smarter, you wouldn't be doing what you just did."

Giselbert blinked, looking puzzled. He perked up his ears and realized that the tavern had gone silent. He looked around and realized that the stevedores were watching them. Giselbert muttered an apology and released the tavernmaster. Ernst brushed his dirty shirt, still beaming and pointed at Giselbert's bandaged left arm, "And you look like you need more than just one tankard of beer!"

The stevedores, satisfied that no harm has come to their most gracious host, went back to their activities.

Ernst bent down under his counter. Giselbert tensed, ready to duck, as the tavernmaster rose from the counter. He relaxed, realizing that the tavernmaster had brought out a bottle containing a cloudy-white beverage, rather than a blunderbuss.

The tavern master uncorked a bottle, picked up a fresh tankard and poured the bottle's contents into it. "Ratzenberger's Tree Sap Wine!" proclaimed the tavern master as he pushed the tankard towards Giselbert. "Help yourself. Free of charge!"

Giselbert eyed the tavern master suspicious as he lifted the tankard. He could not detect any scent on the white liquid. He glanced at the tavern master, who was watching him expectantly. He whispered a small prayer as he gulped down the beverage. Giselbert savoured the sweetness on his tongue. He also noticed that the aching all over his body seemed to have numbed. "So, how was it?" the tavern master grinned. "Ratzenberger's Tree Sap Wine! Good for when you want to avoid the barber surgeons or too busy to visit the Weeping Woman."

"Oi! Herr Bismarck! What's with the special treatment?" shouted one of the stevedores. "Because I like the boy!" the tavern master shouted back. "I'm going to the back to check up on the steak. And don't worry. Just for you, free of charge!" the tavernmaster smiled at the former watchman before disappearing in the back.

"Help yourself, boy! Don't worry about the payment!" the tavern master, with a smile, placed the plate before Giselbert. Giselbert blinked. Hesitantly, he picked up a fork and knife and slowly sliced a ribbon of meat. "So, tell me, you aren't really here just for the food and drinks, are ye?," the tavernmaster asked as he cleaned a tankard. Giselbert studied the tavernmaster as he chewed at the steak. He swallowed and asked, "What makes you think that?"

"Well," Ernst rubbed his chin, "For one, you aren't binging and singing like the rest of the them." Giselbert studied the tavernmaster. After a while, he answered, "Ye right, checking on something."

"Checking on something you say?" laughed Ernst. He lowered himself towards the counter and asked in a whisper, "Is this about the Anchors?" "No, not the Anchors," Giselbert whispered his reply. "I'm looking for sailors." "Sailors," Ernst looked surprised, "Ain't got no sailors for the past three days, since the Anchors showed up. Reckoned the Anchors had something to do with it. Why are you interested in them?" Giselbert replied, "Can't say. So, three days ago, you say?"

"Yeah, three days ago, since those ships docked over at the jetties right outside," answered Ernst. "Hmmm, not Anchor doing," Giselbert murmured. "Not Anchors?" the tavernmaster asked. "Stevedore work gangs are all about coin," Giselbert explained. "They won't be doing anything that would make them look bad to customers. That means no tussling with sailors. Last they need are sailors crying to their captain, and their captain crying to the merchants and trade companies. It's bad for business. If anything, I say the sailors were told to stay away."

"Whatever for?" Ernst asked.

"Well, that's what I'm trying to find out," Giselbert shrugged.

"Say," Ernst asked again, "Aren't you that Gottschalk lad?" Giselbert suppressed his surprise and asked, "How did you know my name?" Ernst nudged his head towards one of the Anchors, "Those gangers are always talking about you. How you go about meddling in their business and giving them a couple of hard knocks. Not that I disapprove. Nothing against paying customers, but those gangers had a habit of starting fights over stupid little things."

"And being honest, from the way they talk about you, I expected you to be bigger. A nasty piece of work. Bit like those damned Norscans from up north."

"Piece of advice, lad," said Ernst as he nudged his head. Giselbert turned his head slightly and noticed that two of the Anchors watching him and whispering amongst each other. Giselbert realized he had been recognized.

"When you get out of the tavern, slam the door behind you. I had a pile of trash on the door. Just topple those at the door. Don't worry about me. Walk fast and stay away from the alleyways. There are more than just murderers waiting for ye there," Ernst whispered. Giselbert nodded.

The two Anchors were pushing through the crowd, coming towards him. Giselbert tensed. It seemed that the gangers were not content with waiting until he left the tavern. He turned to the tavern master and gave a heartfelt apology. Ernst looked at him quizzically. As soon as an Anchor placed his hand at Giselbert's shoulder, the former watchman spun around and punched him. He shouted as he threw what's left of his tankard of Tree Sap Wine at another Anchor, "You call this Bretonnian ale? What piss-hole did you crawl out from?" The Anchors were stunned by his sudden accusation. Giselbert took advantage of their pause, got onto his feet and flew for the door, just as the stevedores flung themselves at the Anchors.

The tavern swiftly fell into anarchy. "Get him! Get him!" an Anchor shouted desperately as he pushed his way through the crowd, before he was helplessly swept into the chaos. The other Anchor, who managed to reach the door, found his path blocked. A furious stevedore descended upon him and punched his teeth out.

Former Naval Commander Ernst Bismarck chuckled as he disappeared into the kitchen. "Damn, lad!" he continued to chuckle, as the tankards, bottles and furniture soared in his tavern.

* * *

"What do you mean we are not going to raid the warehouse?" Emmanuel roared as he pounded his fists into the Captain's Desk. Fruehauf, seated at the Captain's Desk, still as a gargoyle, saying nary a word. Her lack of response inflamed Emmanuel's temper. "You read the report! The alchemists and the engineers confirmed that smoke bombs were used, and the only places to acquire them were Marienburg or Tilea! This confirms mercantile involvement! And the sewers led us to the warehouse! The signs were clear! Why aren't we doing anything about this?"

Fruehauf remained silent. Emmanuel seethed. His fists were shaking, red with fury. He felt the urge to reach out for her little neck and strangle her. In fact, he was considering it, burning pyres be damned. However, before his fists could leave the desk, she spoke. Her voice was calm, unwavering, yet cold. The chill cut through his nerves, reminding him painfully of the fate of Aushwitz.

She had spoken, yet her words were not of assurance, consolation or comfort. "How many warehouses are there in Salzenmund?" she asked.

"What are you insinuating, Fruehauf? You know full well..." Emmanuel spoke in a half-shout. The witch hunter ignored his helpless indignation and continued, interrupting the former lieutenant, "There are four warehouses located in the Docks District, and three in the Market District, each potentially nests of heretics. Suppose that we search the northern Docks District warehouse and found nothing, what then?"

Emmanuel seethed. He understood what the witch hunter was saying, and as much as he hated to admit it, she was right. Regardless of whether they found anything, the cultists will notice and will take precautions to avoid discovery and capture, complicating their investigation. However, the thought of standing idle and do nothing was unbearable. The deathly pale faces of the young couple in the bakery flashed in his mind. He clenched his fist tightly and ground his teeth, "So, what will you have us do? Sit here and wait? Let them get away with further murders?"

The witch hunter lifted her head. Emmanuel felt his heart stop, as he found himself staring into her cold eyes. He bowed his head slightly and pulled away from the desk.

"I understand your concerns," the witch hunter spoke slowly, "but this is a delicate matter."

"And a delicate matter requires a delicate touch."

* * *

It was night. The bell tolled a total of twenty two times that day. The bright, silver moon, Mannslieb, hung high in the sky, despite the mountainous clouds. Its smaller and darker sibling, Morrslieb, the Chaos Moon, leered upon the deserted streets of below.

Giselbert's heart thumped. Another pair of halberdiers just walked past his hiding spot. He peered from behind the garbage pile. Satisfied that the halberdiers were far enough away, he left his hiding spot and dashed across the street. As he reached the street corner, he tried to stop. Instead, he stumbled. He quickly regained his footing and hid behind the street corner.

The former watchman was sweating profusely. His limbs were shaking and his face was flushed. He felt like he could collapse at any time. He did not know how he got so unwell, and he didn't care. He had work to do. Rest can come later. Giselbert peeked around the corner. Seeing no halberdier, he ran across the street (almost tripping along the way) and into the warehouse compounds.

He clumsily leaped over a stack of empty crates and collapsed behind them. He whined in pain as he rubbed his sore head and back. He fell silent and ducked, just as another pair of halberdiers patrolled past. They were uncomfortably close. Giselbert could hear their humming. As the humming faded away, he exhaled and panted. He shakily wiped the sweat off his brow. His forehead felt hot, as though it was on fire. His tunic was drenched in his sweat. He felt the chilly wind biting into his bones. He grumbled as he twisted the lid of his hip flask open and drank the vodka within. The alcohol should stifle the cold, at least for the moment.

Giselbert snuck deeper into the warehouse compound, towards another stack of empty crates and barrels. He peeked from behind the crates and barrels and found no guards.

No guards. There were no guards in or around the warehouse. Even the merchant ships were unguarded. Giselbert found this to be very peculiar. The warehouse owner and the merchants usually employ guards to watch the cargo. To lose any cargo was to lose a considerable fortune, and those money grubbers guard their fortunes jealously. Giselbert warily looked around him. Nobody in sight. He pulled out a crowbar and sneaked towards the jetty and onto one of the merchant ships.

As he suspected, the lower deck was not guarded. Not even a single sailor was seen sleeping on the hammocks. There was nothing stopping him from reaching the cargo hold. The cargo hold too was not guarded. It looked as though the owners of the ships were deliberately leaving his cargo unguarded. Giselbert glimpsed a lantern lying nearby and reached for it. He searched his pocket for a tinder box and lit the lantern.

With the lantern illuminating the cargo hold, Giselbert had a clearer view of his surroundings. Stacks upon stacks of crates filled the cargo hold. On one side, he could see numerous cubical crates marked with the all-too-familiar seal of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild. Directly in front of him were a large collection of longer crates, also bearing same seal. There were unmarked crates on another side. Giselbert did not recall seeing any stevedores hauling these particular crates.

Giselbert aching arms were shaking as he drew a crowbar. He approached the marked cubical crates and pried one of them open. Inside this crate, there was a collection of weapons, surrounded by hay. Daggers, swords, axes, rapiers were counted amongst their numbers, all carrying the Guild's seal. At first glance there was nothing suspicious about the cargo, but Giselbert's suspicions did not abate. He searched deeper through the hay. He touched a slender object. Giselbert knew this was what he was searching for. He fondled the object for its grip and then pulled it out.

The sword in his hands had a hilt, grip and crossguard unlike any other sword. They were very ornately and wickedly shaped. The sword was also surprisingly light. He slowly slid the weapon from its scabbard, revealing the blade. The blade was jet-black and slender. It also had a wavy and jagged edge. Giselbert thought back of Ludwig Bachmeier's throat wound and decided that the wound may be inflicted by weapons of these types. The former watchman inspected the weapon. Unlike the other weapons in the crate, this one bore no seal.

Giselbert continued his search. He found daggers of a similar, wicked design. The longer crate contained what appeared to be two handed versions of the slender, wicked sword. The unmarked crates contained a globular object with a short rope on its side. Giselbert guessed it must be an explosive of some kind. All these confirmed his suspicions.

The former watchman tucked the dagger behind his belt and deposited the explosive in his pouch. He tensed up as he caught soft footsteps, approaching the cargo deck. He got up with a start. He swiftly closed the lids, snuffed the lantern, heaved the sack into a dark corner and looked for a place to hide. In his panic, he tripped over a length of rope and stumbled. Giselbert groaned softly as he touched the back of his head. He frantically got up and crawled away, towards one of the large stacks of crates.

The footsteps walked past him. Giselbert was about to sigh in relief. He stopped himself, realizing that he would be discovered. He slowly rose from his hiding spot and searched for the newcomers.

He could see six figures milling about in the darkness. He could make out a cloak and a cowl. "Cultists!" thought Giselbert. However, he decided not to attack the cultists. He was in no position to fight. He hid, hands on the grip of his skinning knife, as he observed the heretics. He saw one of them nodding at the others and pointing at one of the crates. It then pointed at the longer crate and an unmarked crate. The other cultists nodded in reply as they pried open the indicated crates. They searched the crates and picked up the curious weapons. Two of them dumped the contents of the unmarked crate into a large sack.

After they were done, the cultists turned to leave. Giselbert ducked as the six walked past his hiding spot and towards the exit. "Where are they going?" Giselbert asked himself as he rose from his hiding spot. He slid open the lid of one of the crates and picked up a broadsword. He whispered a prayer for forgiveness as he tucked the sword behind his belt. He then exited the cargo hold, shadowing the cultists.

Giselbert found the cultists creeping down the jetty. He also saw other groups of cultists approaching the merchant ships from the shadows and from small riverboats along the River Salz. He ducked and crept along the edges of the hull, following his quarries out of the ship.

The former watchman looked behind himself, making sure that he wasn't noticed or followed. He let out a soft sigh of relief as the cultists behind him went about their business, boarding the merchant ships without noticing him. He whispered a prayer of thanks as he peeked behind the barricade of crates. His quarries had lowered themselves down the manhole and replaced the cover.

He swore and cursed. He had to trek through the noxious sewers once more! He did not relish being in those dank tunnels again. Another encounter with a skaven was the last thing he needed! However, if that was where the cultist went, then that's where he will follow them.

He crept towards the manhole, moving along the warehouse wall, allowing the shadow to fall upon him. As he was about to pry open the manhole cover, he heard something landing softly behind him. He was discovered! He spun around, drawing his broadsword, readying himself for a fight. He found himself tackled and knocked down, disarmed and pinned down onto the cold ground.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Ill Met at Midnight**

At the end of the jetty and behind a stack of crates, there crouched a dark figure. This dark figure was cloaked and cowled, and on his back was a sword, wicked and slender. The sword was long as he was tall. The dark figure, hunched, peeked from behind a stack of crates, watching the streets and the warehouse compound. After a short moment, he slowly raised his hand, his palm wide open.

Five more figures, also cloaked and cowled, emerged from the ship. These men bore daggers, swords and axes, all wicked and cruel. One of them carried a sack, filled with the instruments of murder. The dark figures crept down the jetty and joined their brethren behind the empty crate. One of the figures nodded. The other, the one with the long blade, nodded back.

This group of heretics dashed across the warehouse compound, from stacks of crates to stacks of crates, from piles of barrels to piles barrels and from garbage piles to garbage piles. Their frantic yet stealthy trek was suddenly halted, as they came across another group of six cowled figures. The heretics were still, tensed, their hands on their weapons. They watched and sized each other up, like packs of wolves around a spoil.

One amongst the opposing group stepped forward. It released its hold on its two-handed axe, black, wicked and cruel. It hunched low, its head slightly bowed. The other members of its group looked at their leader. Reluctantly, they followed its example and abased themselves.

The freshly supplied group of heretics glanced at each other briefly. They relaxed, releasing their grips on their weapons. They nodded at the opposing group. The opposing group rose and nodded back. The two groups passed each other by, though they warily watched each other until they were some distance away.

The freshly supplied group passed a stack of empty crates, close to the side of the warehouse. One of them suddenly halted in its tracks and stood utterly still. It turned slowly and craned its neck, towards the crates. The other heretics, realizing that it had stopped, halted their march and approached it. The one with the long blade walked to this cultist and asked, in a harsh voice, "What is it, Brother Strasser?" Brother Strasser turned towards his leader and replied, his voice a sinister whisper, "Something behind those crates."

The group paused, their shoulders tensed. They watched the crates intently. And true enough, there was movement. The heretics drew their weapons, wicked wavy daggers and swords. They divided into two groups of threes and circled around the crates.

The heretics halted in their tracks. There was something behind the crates, certainly. And that something was….mewing.

The cultists were still, stunned silent. They watched the crates, dumbfounded. The mewing was slow. Its pitch and volume raised suddenly into a nasty hiss. The leader shook his head and announced, "Cats."

"Should we kill them?" asked Brother Strasser as he shealthed his sword. The leader let out a low chuckle, before speaking, his voice harsh once more, "Don't be ridiculous, Brother. The blood of a few tabbies will not satisfy Khaine."

The cultists sighted a lanternlight from behind the warehouse. They scrambled to the walls of warehouse and pressed their backs against the cold, grey walls and the moldy gates. The leader peeked around the corner. He observed the emergence of two halberdiers. The halberdiers leisurely strolled down the length of street, gossiping and swigging ale, oblivious of the presence of the heretics. The group leader watched as the halberdiers passed them by. It then turned to its men and shook its head. The heretics fell at ease, though they were still wary. Silently, they slinked away, away from the halberdiers.

The halberdiers continued their merry chat as they patrolled their circuit, blissfully unaware of the heresy around them.

* * *

Giselbert screamed. He screamed and screamed until his throat went hoarse and his lungs gave out. Yet, all he could hear from his mouth was a muffled cry, effortlessly drowned by the autumn breeze. So tight was the grip over his mouth that he could not move his jaw, let alone open his mouth. Giselbert's wide eyes, so wide they could pop out of their sockets, fluttered wildly, trying to make sense of his predicament. He could see a person, clad head to toe in dark brown and black, straddling him on his chest. He could feel its cold, straight knife pressed against his chin.

The creature was bent. Its head was turned to its back, towards the crates. Giselbert's bones groaned as he lifted his head slightly, wary of the knife held against his throat. He could see the approach of cowled figures. He could hear their soft footsteps, steadily growing louder. "Cultists!" he thought.

Giselbert's biceps tensed. However, his arms would not budge by more than an inch. He looked to his right and to his left. Throwing knives were embedded deeply in his sleeves. Yet, Giselbert did not cease his struggle. He jerked and wrung his arms, trying to be free from his restraints, heedless of the knife held against his throat.

The cultist straddling him was silent, watching, listening, unbothered by his struggle. It was looking beyond the stacks of crates. It uttered a sound, but it was not a summon to its brethren. It was an accurate imitation of a cat's mew. The mew started slow, and escalated gradually into a hiss. Giselbert lifted his head slightly again, and he saw the cowled figures departing.

Giselbert was still, stunned silent. He could not quite decide whether he should sigh in relief. Certainly, the cowled figures had departed, but he was not certain if the danger had passed. Neither could he understand the motive of the cultist straddling him.

The cultist turned to look at him. Giselbert glared back, defiant. His gasped. His breath was robbed the moment their eyes met. The cultist's large eyes were a deep shade of green. Beautiful but cold, like emerald or jade. The cultist appraised him. It then, very slowly, almost too cautiously, released its grip on his jaw. Giselbert, feeling the cold air brushing his cheeks, gasped for breath.

The former watchman swallowed the air. He gulped the air hungrily until his throat clenched painfully in protest. He coughed and wheezed, as his eyes turned to his attacker again.

His gaze lingered upon his attacker's face. Instead of a dark cowl, it was wearing a dark brown chapka, ear flaps down. Its face was covered, concealed not with a mask or a neckerchief, but with a thick, black scarf. He turned his gaze downwards and noticed that it was not cloaked. Its leather coat was unconcealed, unshrouded in any way.

"Not a cultist," he thought. Yet he remained tense, ill at ease. He still did not know if this creature meant him good or ill.

Slowly, cautiously, the knife left his throat. He was about to exhale, to sigh in relief, only to yelp as a sharp pain assaulted his left arm. However, the sound he uttered was muffled, for he was once again gagged, leather pressed firmly into his mouth. He writhed and struggled, to no avail. He was still pinned by its weight and the throwing knife embedded in his sleeve. The 'hunter' dislodged the throwing knife and roughly lifted his arm. It forcefully peeled his thumb and index finger apart. Giselbert let out a muffled scream, as the creature twisted his palm and examine the bit between his thumb and index finger.

Satisfied, the 'hunter' released its grip on his left arm and mouth. Giselbert gasped and gulped and wheezed. The 'hunter' removed the throwing knife embedded in his sleeve and displaced itself from his chest.

Giselbert wheezed as he felt its weight lifted from his chest. He sat up, only to almost collapse again. His eyes blanked as his head spun. Giselbert grunted as he held his head. He shook his head, trying to regain his composure. His vision cleared, but his head still felt light. He touched his forehead and found it burning.

"After I am done with this, I am going home," he muttered to himself. He looked up, seeking the 'hunter', only to find that it was gone.

Surprised, Giselbert looked around, trying to find any trace of the 'hunter'. The 'hunter' had vanished, leaving no trace of its passing. He searched about and glimpsed an open manhole, just beyond the crates. "Hmmm…" he pondered upon his discovery.

Giselbert got up to his feet. He picked up his sword and returned it to its sheathed. He froze, alarmed, just as soon as his hand brushed his belt. Panicked, he frantically searched his belt.

Gone! His pouch and the wicked dagger were gone!

* * *

Giselbert lost grip on the railings and fell on his back. He mumbled a curse as he rubbed his head. Still on his rear, he surveyed his area. He gasped and scrambled to the wall. There was a skaven here!

The former watchman's heart thumped. The memory of the creature's attack was still fresh. He could feel the wound of his left arm throbbing, as though it remembered the dagger which pierced his flesh. The skaven, lying on the murky ground, was still, its jaw wide open and its tongue lolling. The ground beneath it was stained deeply.

Giselbert caught his breath. He examined the skaven and noted the tattered leather jerkin draped on its verminous form. He looked around and saw his fur jacket right at his feet. Giselbert breathed a sigh of relief. This skaven posed no danger, for it was the same skaven he had killed the previous night.

Giselbert gagged and coughed. The stench was overpowering! "How," he thought, "did I not notice sooner?" He pressed his muddy palm on his forehead. He could feel its simmering heat. He sighed heavily. He rifled through his pocket and produced a piece of rag. Uncaring of hygiene, he pressed the rag against his mouth.

The former watchman surveyed his surroundings. He found bootprints in the muck, grime and filth. He examined the tracks and discovered eight distinct bootprints of varying strides. Six, he knew belonged to the heretics he pursued. The seventh was his, from when he battled the skaven. The eight, he reckoned, must belong to the 'hunter'. Giselbert found his throat tightened and his mouth turned dry. He vividly remembered his encounter with the dreadful ratman. He made the sign of the hammer, whispered a prayer and followed the trail into the darkness ahead.

Without the aid of a lantern or a torch, Giselbert was forced to grope the walls to maintain his bearings. His face wrinkled with disgust as he felt the slimy mold sticking to the walls. Occasionally, he lost his trail, and had to stop to look for tracks. He had to bow so low his rags could almost touch the murky ground. He continued his slow trek, until he chanced upon a brilliant, flickering light. Giselbert's heart quickened as he imagined cultists lying in ambush. Panic quickly faded, logic having seized control over his senses.

Slowly, cautiously, Giselbert crept towards the light. He pressed his back firmly against the slimy wall. He peeked around the corner, and true enough, there stood the 'hunter'. The 'hunter's' scarf swayed lightly as it lowered its torch and bobbed its head. Giselbert knew the 'hunter' was seeking tracks. Likely, they shared the same quarries.

However, the knowledge did not ease Giselbert. Though they shared the same goal, they may not have the same interest. Giselbert watched the 'hunter' closely, searching for signs or indication that would betray its intentions.

Giselbert was surprised. The 'hunter', he realized, was in fact the 'huntress'. The narrowness of her shoulders and waist and the width of her hips betrayed her gender. And to his great surprise and greater shame, the 'hunter' was quite diminutive, likely only reaching his shoulder. "To think she had restrained me," he thought, as his face turned red.

The 'huntress's' size and stature reminded him of the Bretonnian princesses he read about in the shilling dreadfuls. Petite and delicate, traits he attributed to damsels-in-distress, the ones who would lay at the mercy of dragons or daemons or beastmen and await rescue from the gallant Knights Errant. However, unlike the damsels of the stories, her dignified posture and cautious movement suggested strength and purpose. Despite appearances, she had more in common with the grim women of Kislev than the damsels of Bretonnia.

Giselbert could see a knapsack, a crossbow and a cane strapped to her back. Upon her belt, he could glimpse a four throwing knives, a covered quiver and... "My pouch!" he almost exclaimed. "She took my pouch!" Giselbert, red-eyed, stomped forth to confront the thief, only to duck, as a bolt whizzed over his head. Giselbert drew his sword and stood on guard. The 'huntress' looked at him warningly, her crossbow aimed at his general direction.

"Unlikely she will use the crossbow," Giselbert thought, "I will be on to her before she could fully draw the bowstring."

"Likely she will use her throwing knives. I shall close in…"

His thoughts were interrupted by a disdainful "Hmmph!" The 'huntress had spun around, crossbow withdrawn, walking away. Giselbert, still tensed and sword still drawn, followed her, taking care to maintain their distance.

The former watchman's eyes never left the 'huntress'. Like a hunter stalking a deer, he watched her every movement, her every gesture. The 'huntress' prowled the sewers, her feet light, fleet and sure. She kept to the dry ground, hopping over puddles by reflex. "Clearly," thought Giselbert, "she is well-versed in the ways of the tracker and the hunter."

The 'huntress' turned around the corner. Giselbert paused and counted to three, before hurrying after her. However, just as soon as he turned around the corner, a straight-bladed dagger lashed out at him. Giselbert instinctively raised his sword to deflect the blow. The dagger swerved off course, failing to land even a glancing blow. However, so furious was its thrust that Giselbert found himself stumbling backwards. He regained his footing and stood on guard.

The two persons sized each other up, waiting for each other to make a move. The air thick with tension and anticipation, so thick, Giselbert swore it would smother the rats. Sweat rolled down his chin. His head was starting to pound. His hands were sweaty and trembling. Yet, his focus never wavered. He watched, waited, ready to parry, to deflect or to dodge. The 'huntress', judging by her posture, likely shared the same thoughts. After a while, and to Giselbert's surprise, the 'huntress' replaced her dagger into its shealth, strapped to her slender thigh, and walked away.

Eventually, the two came upon a ladder. The 'hunter' snuffed her torch. Giselbert immediately assumed a guard, anticipating an attack. He waited, and waited, yet the attack did not come. Giselbert's head snapped upwards, so forcefully that his neck emitted a loud 'crack'. Giselbert rubbed his neck, to ease the aching, as he watched the glow of Mannslieb seeping through the slowly-opening manhole.

Giselbert clambered up the ladder. His movement was clumsy, for his limbs were aching and his palms were slick with sweat. Worse still, he was feeling light-headed, suffering from vertigo. "This did not happen last night," he mused. "How had I become so ill?" He pushed the thought away and focused on his exit. Three times, he almost slipped, but he did not let his weakness deter him. His climb hastened as he closed to the surface, spurred on by the sweet scent of the night air and the gentle touch of the breeze upon his cheeks.

He ducked as soon as he emerged. A throwing knife had flown over his head, shaving the tip of his hair. Giselbert swore. He tightened his grip on the ladder as he pulled his leg up to a curl, readied for a leap. He looked upwards and found his path blocked. The 'huntress' was positioned at the corner of the manhole, her crossbow aimed at his forehead.

"You are a stubborn one," said the 'huntress'. Her refined accent was that of Reikland. "Or perhaps, you are dense. Pray tell me, why had you followed me this far?"

"You took my pouch!" Giselbert accused. "Yes, I took your pouch," the Reiklander acknowledged, no attempt made to justify her theft. "However, any man would be deterred from pursuing an armed robber. Or he would have battled the robber to regain his possession. You did neither."

The Reiklander paused. She stared at him for a while, her eyes bearing the light of revelation. "Ah, I see. We shared the same quarries."

"So you realized," replied Giselbert. "And that should make us allies, does it not?"

"Perhaps," said the Reiklander. "Perhaps we are allies. Perhaps we are enemies. Tell me, Dummkopf. Why seek the cultists?"

"I see no reason to explain myself," spat Giselbert. "Then I will give you one," replied the Reiklander, gesturing at her crossbow. "Hmmph!" huffed Giselbert, "Do not make threats you do not intend to follow." The 'huntress' paused for a moment, before she asked, "What makes you believe that?" Giselbert shook his head and replied, "Do you truly think me so blind and foolish? Your crossbow is uncocked!"

The 'huntress' blinked. She replied, her voice slow and cautious, "I forgot to reload." There was a hint of embarrassment in her voice, but it sounded so contrived it had to be feigned. Giselbert snorted again, "You must think me a fool to believe I would buy so obvious a lie. Only the blind would not realize that the crossbow was uncocked. Now, if you would be so incline…"

Giselbert held his tongue. He could hear the tension on the bowstring. The 'hunter' aimed her crossbow at him, again, and this time, the bowstring was drawn and a bolt was loaded. "Explain," she coldly threatened.

Giselbert glared at the 'huntress'. His glanced at her crossbow, held dangerously close to his forehead. Seeing no other choices, barring releasing his grip and falling back into the depths of the sewers, he reluctantly explained himself. He detailed the events that lead him to his predicament, taking care to omit any parts that were either suspicious, or would put him in a bad light.

"You are a true Nordlander," chuckled the 'huntress', "Storyteller par excellence. However, you have to forgive me for taking your tale with a grain of salt." Giselbert growled. He sighed and swore loudly, "I swear, in the name of Sigmar and the Holy Emperor and the Grand Theogonist, that everything I say is…" "Whatever you say, Dummkopf," the 'huntress' shrugged as she withdrew her crossbow. "But should you do anything suspect..."

"Yes, yes, you will slay me," shrugged Giselbert.

"Now that we have settled things between us, would you be so kind to get off that ledge?" Giselbert demanded. "Hmmmm," the 'huntress' hummed as she examined the former watchman. She could see the former watchman's limbs shaking and trembling. She could see his fingers slowly peeling away from the ladder's railings. She tilted her head slightly and spoke, sounding amused, "Say 'please'."

Giselbert scowled, "Why you little…." The 'hunter' stared at him, her green eyes gleamed with amusement. She reached out and slowly pulled the manhole cover. Giselbert, alarmed, pleaded desperately, "Please get off the ledge!" "Repeat your request, more politely this time," the 'hunter' instructed. "You little runt!" the former watchman swore. The 'hunter' stared at him for a moment. She then started pulling the manhole cover again. "Alright! Alright!" Giselbert yelped.

"Please, oh pretty please, my sweet and charming lady. Please kindly stay away from the ledge, so that this poor man can climb out of the sewers."

The 'hunter' arched her brow. She giggled, "Are you trying to charm me?" "GAH!" Giselbert howled in frustration.

Giselbert felt himself falling. Confused, he looked at the ladder. His expression paled. He realized he had slipped. "GAAAAAAH!" he howled in despair, as he sank into the darkness below. His cries of despair turned into a cry of pain. He could feel his left arm roughly pulled, his joints straining, threatening to snap.

Giselbert sprawled, face first, on the cold pavement. He lay there, still like a corpse. After a while, he trembled. He curled up, clutching his left arm, squirming and whimpering and moaning. He could feel a moist, sticky patch growing on his left bandage.

Livid, he turned to the 'huntress'. His anger faded as quickly as it had ignited. The 'huntress' was struggling to remain upright; her form trembled as she leaned against the wall. For a moment there, he thought she looked truly delicate.

His warm thoughts were quickly dispelled, as he was thrown against the wall. He opened his mouth to protest, only to be gagged. "Mmmmph!" he complained. He glared at the 'huntress'. He gasped, his breathing stopped, his heart skipped. The 'huntress' had pressed herself against him.

Giselbert could see the white skin under the scarf and hat. Skin white as snow. He could see the golden strands tucked under her scarf. He imagined a porcelain doll, painstakingly crafted by the the loving hands of a Nuln artisan, wrapped under the thick hat, coat and scarf. However, just like a doll, thought Giselbert with disappointment, she was….lacking. And very unlike a lovingly crafted doll, she had that rank and putrid stench of the sewers clinging onto her.

The 'huntress' had an anxious look in her eyes. Giselbert followed her gaze and saw cowled figures emerging from the corner. He watched, as one after another passed them by. His eyes followed their path. His alert ears listened to their were six of them, three carrying mining picks, purposefully marching with purposeful strides, all oblivious of their presence.

As soon as the last cultist was out of sight, the 'huntress' released her grip upon his jaw. Giselbert gasped and coughed. So violent was his coughing that he clutched his chest, bowled over and gasped for air. The 'huntress' tilted her head as she followed his squirming. She then ignored him and strode towards the T-junction.

Giselbert eventually cleared the lingering stench in his nostrils and recovered his breath. Shakily, he pushed himself up. He turned to the huntress. The huntress pressed her back against the wall, sneaking a peek around the corner, towards whence the heretics came. He approached her and said, "If you are looking for their lair, it's either the second or the third building to the left." The 'huntress' looked at him, tilting her head slightly. Giselbert explained, "I counted the number of footsteps, separate by the number of blasphemers and take into account of the length of their strides." "That," commented the 'huntress', "does not seem reliable." Giselbert shrugged, "We make do with what we have."

"At this point, there are two paths," suggested Giselbert, "We can seek their lair, or we can follow them. However, seeing that there are two of us, we can pursue both." The 'huntress' gazed at him with skeptical eyes. "What?" Giselbert asked. "You are a civilian," uttered the 'huntress', "How can you contribute to this operation?" Giselbert frowned, feeling insulted, "I am no civilian, milady. You knew I am a former watchman…." "Still a civilian," the 'huntress' pointed out. "Yes, but that does not mean I lost my tracking abilities," scowled the former watchman.

The 'huntress' held her forehead and sighed, "As much as it irks me, it seems I would have to draw upon the services of a civilian." She threw her head up and looked at Giselbert in the eye. Giselbert, upon looking into those cold, green eyes, held his breath. The 'huntress' spoke, "So be it then."

"You are to shadow the heretics. Report everything you see and hear. Do not engage. Escape if you are discovered. Do not inhale too deeply. Do not touch anything."

Giselbert looked dumbfounded. "Wait….what do you mean 'do not inhale too deeply' and 'do not touch anything'," he inquired. However, the 'huntress' was already gone. Giselbert looked about, surprised. His sharp ears picked up a scraping sound and his keen eyes glimpse movement. He looked up and was shocked to see the 'huntress' seamlessly scaling up the wall, without the use of any equipment.

The former watchman shook off his surprise. He looked down the street and hurriedly pursued his quarries.

* * *

Giselbert grumbled. He had lost his quarries. He cursed himself inwardly for dawdling. He sighed and told himself, "Well, nothing I can do about that. Focus on salvaging the operation."

Giselbert crouched low. He sharpened his senses and searched for signs for the heretics' passing. His mind wailed, protesting against the exertion. Giselbert pushed himself to look for tracks or other signs, heedless of his inner urgings.

The former watchman was already shaking, trembling, when he heard voices in the wind. He gripped the bridge of his nose and shook his head. The voices did not leave. Giselbert realized he had not been hallucinating. He followed the direction of the voices and found them coming from the walls.

"What tunnels are these, Brother Bauer?" said the soft voice. "I had never seen anything like these before."

Giselbert pinpointed the source of the voice. It came from the pile of rubble lying against the wall. He knelt before the pile and slowly dug into it.

"Skaven tunnels," spoke another, colder and harsher voice. Giselbert froze, upon hearing the announcement. "Skaven tunnels?" he gaped. "Are you sure this is safe?" asked the previous voice. "The skaven that once occupied these tunnels were gone." Giselbert sighed in relief. The voice continued, "Ask not what happened to them, for it is irrelevant. We will use these tunnels in service of Khaine."

"Should we find any warpstone along the way, we will collect them for the Executioner and his advisors. Do not ask what they sought with these stones; only know that the stones will serve their purpose."

Giselbert froze, stunned silent, upon hearing the announcement. "Warpstone?" he thought. "Warpstone? Right under our very feet?" The former watchman had heard about the fabled stones, though he had never seen one. He was not sure if he believed all the wild things they say about the stone, about how it could amplify magic, how it could turn lead into gold, how it could cure all diseases and how it could restore virility, among others. He knew that the stone, even a small fragment, will fetch a hefty price in the black market. So great was the demand for the stone that one could live like the Emperor by simply selling one tiny sliver to the right buyer.

However, the mere possession of warpstone is illegal in the Empire, punishable by death. And there was a reason for it. The witch hunters, the priests, even the Emperor himself, claimed the stones were the stuff of pure Chaos. Chaos given form. Mere exposure could horribly mutate the flesh and taint the soul.

A dark voice whispered within Giselbert. Imagine the fortune he could make if he acquire a piece of the valuable but dangerous substance. He pushed the thought out of his mind. A purse filled with crowns could easily solve nearly all his life problems, but it will all be for naught should the heretics get to him or his mother first. Resolved strengthened, Giselbert feverishly dug through the rubble. Beneath the rubble was a hole, small, but large enough to crawl through.

Giselbert stumbled down the abyss and landed hard on his back. The air of the tunnel was stagnant and smothered in dust. Giselbert coughed, trying to clear his lungs. He remembered the 'huntress's'warning and quickly covered his nose and mouth.

The tunnel was dark. Pitch black. He couldn't even see the ground beneath him. He searched around. While he did so, he recalled the 'huntress's' instructions. He could not help but wonder if she had known about the tunnels. The thoughts were quickly dispelled when he caught sight of lanternlights down the tunnel. He hurried after the heretics, taking care not to get too close.

The trek was long and uneventful. Though the heretics, and Giselbert, do run across rubbles and wreckages of strange contraptions, there was nothing of note occurring. They did not even come across the remains of the ratmen, which Giselbert found strange. The heretics would stop every so often to sift through the wreckages and rubble, but, looking at how they would continue on with heaving shoulders, their scavenging had not borne any fruit.

Giselbert could see another light just ahead. He could make out another six figures. Cowled and cloaked, clearly they were heretics. These cultists raised their mining picks and forcefully brought them down, striking the earth. "Crack! Crack! Crack!"

So engrossed were this group in their digging that they did not notice the arrivals. The newly arrived group stopped. The one with the long blade, as long as he was tall, whispered to his fellow cultists, his voice cold and sinister, "Lights out." The lantern-holder nodded. He opened his lantern and snuffed the candlelight.

A battle soon followed, much to Giselbert's surprise. The arriving cultists lunged at the digging cultists, seizing them by surprise. The heretics cut the rival group down to the last man. "Offer their blood to Khaine!" the heretic with the long sword bellowed as he kicked one of the heretics down and beheaded him.

The cultists laid the corpses neatly on the ground. They produced a cup-like object, jet black and lined with blade-like projections. Giselbert observed them as they crouched before the corpses. He gasped, as he saw them struck the projections into the wounds. He witnessed the blood pouring into and overflowing the cup, spilling onto the ground.

The cultists had separated into two groups of threes. One group busied themselves with the task of filling the cups, while the other struck the walls. The cultist with the long sword, clearly the leader, goaded his fellow heretics, "Faster! Faster! The sacrifice awaits!"

Giselbert's fist clenched. Sweat poured from his pores as his face flushed. His head grew dizzy, his limbs trembled. He grasped his sword, treating his illness as mild inconvenience. Before he could draw however, he heard the 'huntress's' soft voice. "Do not engage," she had instructed.

Giselbert growled. The image of Ludwig Bachmeier's corpse flashed before his eyes. His mind replayed the scene of the Backalley Massacres. He clenched his teeth, "Seems I will have to disobey." He groped his belt for his hip flask. He retrieved the container, twisted open its lid and drained its contents. He covered his mouth and coughed lightly. He slowly, cautiously drew his sword as he swore, "Sigmar willing, nobody else will die today!"

"Not on my watch!"

The former watchman, his mind cleared and his pain dulled, begun scanning the area ahead as he begun his approach. He simulated his battle plan, running it again and again, as he drew ever closer. The heretics were so engrossed in their work that they failed to notice his approach, even as the veil of shadow peeled away from his form. As he got within range of the first heretic, he slowly, cautiously, raised his sword high and struck him down.

The death cry of the cultist alerted them of his presence. However, Giselbert was already upon them. Even as the first heretic laid dying, blood and spinal fluid spilling from his neck, he sliced through the second heretic, pelvis to shoulder. The heretic slumped onto the dusty ground, gurgling, as blood and innard spilled from its wound.

Giselbert had driven his sword into the third heretic when the other three lunged at him. The former watchman threw his victim down as he roughly withdrew his blade. The fourth heretic, sword raised for an overhead slash, tripped over the corpse and stumbled. Giselbert took a step forward and detached the blasphemer's head from his neck. His swing continued and clashed with another blade.

Giselbert and a cultist locked blades. The cultist, a larger, broader person, placed its palm on the back of its sword. The former watchman's heel dug into the dusty ground as his opponent forced down his blade. Giselbert's left arm started to throb and ache. The former watchman growled and and grunted. The larger cultist stumbled as Giselbert angled his sword, its wicked blade scraping the flat of the broadsword. With one fluid motion, Giselbert slid forward spun around, swinging his sword and slammed the pommel into the heretic's cheek. The heretic cried as it toppled and fell.

A long, wicked sword, blade slender, serrated and wavy, swept for Giselbert's head. Giselbert raised his weapon and deflected the blow. However, the strong strike forced him back.

His opponent, the cultist leader, stood on guard. Giselbert ground his teeth, knowing that this will not be an easy foe. The leader lowered its blade, the tip touching the ground, and charged, swinging its blade towards his side. The former watchman blocked the attack and swung for its midsection. The heretic leaped back, the sword missing by mere inches, and retaliated.

The two clashed back and forth, but the heretic was gaining. Giselbert's limbs trembled, his grip on his sword growing slippery. His heart was beating erratically; his breathing was fast and shallow and he was getting dizzier by the minute. Giselbert swore inwardly, realizing he had grossly underestimated his foe. This cultist was a swordfighter par excellence. No doubt it had formal training. He should have known! He had deduced their methods from prior investigations! How could he have forgotten?

Giselbert was hard pressed to close in the distance. The heretic's sword had a longer range. Every time he tried to get close, the heretic would sweep his blade, forcing him back. When he did manage to get pass his guard, the heretic would leap back and retaliate.

Giselbert raised his sword to block another strike, aimed for his skull. The wicked blade shattered upon the flat of his sword. Giselbert and the heretic stood still, stunned silent. Giselbert grinned triumphantly as he charged his opponent. The heretic disdainfully discarded its shattered weapon. It side-stepped and caught his weapon's grip. It elbowed Giselbert in the jaw. Giselbert moaned as he clutched his aching jaw. He could feel his blood dripping from his mouth. He spied the cultist raising his sword, ready to attack. With a roar, Giselbert lunged, his cranium colliding with its ribcage as he tackled his foe.

Giselbert crushed the heretic against the wall. The heretic cried and tried to push him back. Giselbert stubbornly grappled the heretic, slamming him into the wall repeatedly. "Unhand me!" the cultist leader cried as he brought the pommel of the broadsword into his back. "Unhand me, worm!"

Giselbert grunted as the pommel struck repeatedly into his back. He could feel his ribcage and spine groaning under the assault. With a mighty cry, he raised his arm and caught the sword, as it crashed towards his back. His left arm screamed as Giselbert twisted the heretic's arm. The heretic let out a bloodcurding cry as he was disarmed and thrown to the ground.

The former watchman he straddled the heretic. He pressed his left arm into the heretic's neck and raised his right arm, balled into a fist, high. He roared as he brought his fist into the heretic's cheek. His fist bloodied as he rained furious blows upon the heretic. The heretic struggled, swinging it arm, scratching his cheek and twisting his ear. Yet, Giselbert would not relent. He kept pounding his opponent, obliterating its visage and slamming its cranium into the ground.

The heretic wheezed and coughed and spat out blood. Giselbert, feeling light-headed, tilted his head back and inhaled deeply. He removed his skinning knife and raised it over the heretic. With a loud cry, the former watchman brought the blade down.

Giselbert groaned. His ear rung, his vision blurred and his skull cracked. He grunted in pain as he fell onto the ground. He spied another heretic, the broad person, standing over him, its wicked blade held in its grip, crossguard wet with his blood.

With a grunt, Giselbert got onto his knees. He crawled on the ground. Suppressing the urge to vomit, he reached out for his sword.

Giselbert cried as he fell on his side. He clutched the side of his abdomen and moaned in pain. The cultist leader wheezed as it loomed malevolently over him. It panted as it wobbly maintained its footing. It spat blood at the former watchman and landed a hard kick into his abdomen.

The heretic leader spoke venomously, "Your meddling has cost us the entire operation!" The former watchman spat as he reached out for his sword. The heretic leader growled and stomped his arm. Giselbert clenched his teeth, denying the fiend the satisfaction of hearing his cry. The broad cultist passed its sword to its leader. The leader nodded at it as it accepted the blade. It shot an angry glare at Giselbert. Its scowl twisted into a wicked smile as it raised the wicked sword over Giselbert, blade pointed at his throat, "But you had proven yourself a worthy alternative. He will be most pleased. Khaine! Accept this sacrifice!"

Giselbert averted his eyes, face contorted into an expression of disgust. He could feel warm blood splashing on his cheeks. He slowly opened his eyelids and spied the cultist leader recoiling. The leader gasped, its eyes wide with surprise. Its wicked sword left its slackening grip. The leader caressed the steel spike which had pierced its neck. Its gurgled as it looked upon its bloodied hand. The cultist leader's eyes rolled as it crumpled onto the ground.

Giselbert got onto his arms and knees. He crawled for his sword. His limbs buckled as he threw up. His vision dimmed as he fell onto his back. He wheezed as he faded to black, his last sight that of two flashing daggers.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Frau Tannenbaum**

With a groan, Giselbert Gottschalk lifted his stiff arm and laid it over his forehead. His throbbing forehead, which weighted like an anvil, was hot, no, burning to the touch. He gagged, his nostrils assailed by a mix of nauseating scent. Slowly, he opened his eyes; only to shut his eyelids tight immediately, his retina burnt by the light.

His ears twitched. The air was saturated with cries, moans and groans. However, amongst the noise, Giselbert could pick up a collection of muffled and slurred words. His mind wailed as he filtered the sound from the noise, finding words hidden amongst the groans and piecing them together into something coherent.

"...sur…"

"...cursing him…..worry too much…."

Giselbert slowly opened his eyes, allowing the light to gradually seep in. The former watchman swiveled his head to his left, to whence the words came, and was greeted by two blurry figures, in the midst of a discussion. One of them, a man, likely, was lean, with a sword and a lantern on his hip. The other was shorter, slightly bent, donned in loose, white robes.

"Worry too much?" spoke the robed figure, with a hoarse and matrony voice. "Worry too much, you say?" she shook her head. "Look here!" she unfolded her arms and gestured furiously, "He cracked his knuckles! He mangled his left forearm! His skull and jaw are cracked! He almost lost his left ear. Scratches and bruises everywhere! And WORSE, he is showing signs of the red pox! You are his friend, Lanric Schwart! Can't you keep a closer eye on him?"

"Look, Mother Bertha," said the lean figure with the sword and the lantern, "I am his friend, not his shadow."

Giselbert closed his eyes once more. He knitted his brow as he tightened his eyelids and squeezed the tears from his eyes. He opened his eyes and beheld the sight of Lanric Schwart, his former partner, and Mother Bertha, the matriarch of the local Temple of Shallya, arguing.

"I can't be with him all the time, I have my own life, my own duty, to attend to," Lanric scowled. "And yet, you have the time to go around picking up old women!" Mother Bertha argued. "Not any old woman, Giselbert's mother!" "Yes, yes. Solphie Gottschalk. You should be worrying over your friend more rather than his mother!"

"Mother Bertha…." Lanric grumbled as he held his head. "You have visited the Gottschalk household before! You know that place! If she stayed there, it's only a matter of time she gets her throat slit," he said, punctuating his statement by sliding his thumb across his throat. "I had to get her out of there!" "And your bright idea for keeping her safe is putting her at the tender mercies of the Fly Lord!" argued the matriarch, "There, she may have her throat slit, but here, she will most certainly catch pneumonia. Winter's coming and the Temple will be crowded! Colds go around like gossip among fish wives!"

"Then separate her from the other patients!" Lanric barked. "And as you said, Solphie is frail. Giselbert, on the other hand, is tougher than an ox! Remember the last time he was here? Gutted like a fish? You said he was going to die! He is still here, among the living! The hatter is not going to die anytime soon!"

"Damn right….you are….Lanric…." coughed Giselbert.

Lanric spun his head towards the patient, his mouth slightly opened and his eyes wide. He blinked for a moment. He then glanced at Mother Bertha, and then back at Giselbert again. His look of astonishment faded, his open mouth closed and curled into a triumphant grin, as he turned to the matriarch.

"See? See? I told you!"

Mother Bertha scowled as she folded her arms, "Ranald does not suffer fools forever. You keep an eye out on him and holler if anything happens."

As the matriarch turned to leave, she continued, "And make sure he drinks the draught! I don't care if it's too bitter or it rots his tongue; force it down his throat if you have to! I will not allow a red pox outbreak!" "Right…." Lanric rolled his eyes.

As soon as Mother Bertha was out of sight, Lanric crouched beside Giselbert. The bedridden watchman noted Lanric's disheveled state. His face was dotted with stubbles and worry lines. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils were shrunken. His hair, usually neatly combed, was unkempt. Moreover, his breath stank of fish and stale ale. Lanric's lips curled into a strained smile, "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," Giselbert coughed.

"Thirsty?" Lanric beamed and chuckled. "That's all you have to say? Thirsty? You shared a same pit with a Norscan Berserker and all you have to say is 'Thirsty'?"

Tears formed at the corner of his eyes as he clutched his sides and violently convulsed. He coughed and wheezed, wincing as he held his ribcage, his face contorted into a pained look. "Ow….ow…." he muttered. "Oh, don't make me laugh…"

Lanric fell onto his knees, wheezing as he wiped his tears. He breathed heavily, supporting himself with his arms. He coughed several times before reaching out for a jug, lying on the side of the pillar on top of a silver tray, and poured Giselbert a glass of water. Giselbert stared at Lanric, and then at his glass. He gulped the beverage, wiped the fluid from the corner of his lips and asked, "What was that about my mother?"

"Oh, your mother," Lanric averted his gaze. "Right…about that. I went to your house yesterday. Thought it was a mighty fine idea to get Solphie out of that cesspit. I know, I know, winter's coming and all, but that area is mostly empty…"

"And does she know?" Giselbert asked, a little forcefully. Lanric blinked, wearing a worried look. "No…" he sputtered, "No! She doesn't!"

Giselbert sighed and looked to the ceiling. He then turned his gaze towards Lanric. He stretched his fingers out and pointed at his friend in the chest, "What's with the broken ribs?"

Lanric deflated, "Nothing escapes you, eh." "You aren't exactly hiding it," Giselbert pointed out, "Out with it!"

"Right…" Lanric exhaled. He looked around himself, bent closer towards Giselbert and dropped his voice down to a whisper, "What you are going to hear is going to be unbelievable. Promise me you will not laugh alright?" Giselbert narrowed his eyes, "Why would I laugh?"

"Well….it involved ratmen, and such…" Lanric mumbled.

"Skaven? You too?" said Giselbert, fluctuating his tone slightly. Lanric arched his brow and widened one of his eyes, "What do you mean with that?"

"Ran into those buggers myself," Giselbert sighed. "See this?" he raised his left forearm. "Ratman dagger."

"Right…" Lanric rolled his eyes. "Okay, so you ran into some ratmen. But this is still going to sound unbelievable."

Lanric told the former watchman his tale, about the witch hunter who came to the Watch headquarters, their trek in the sewers and the attack of the skaven tide and the monster which had pursued them. As he had expected, Giselbert was wearing an unbelieving look. "A rat ogre?" Giselbert mouthed, nodding slightly. "A rat ogre? Are you serious?"

"Well, I did warn you this is going to sound unbelievable…" Lanric shrugged.

"And a witch hunter," Giselbert placed his forehead on the tips of his fingers and exhaled. "A witch hunter! This complicates matters…." Lanric gave him a reassuring smile, "Oh, don't you worry, she isn't one of those 'burn them all and let Sigmar sort them out' types, so long as you do not disobey her."

"And what happens to those who disobey her?" Giselbert asked. "She will shoot off your kneecaps," Lanric deadpanned. "And that's better?" Giselbert frowned. Lanric raised his shoulders and shrugged. "And while we are on the subject, Emmanuel requests that you stand down and lay low for a while. Do what you will about it."

"Well, that's that. Your turn," Lanric grinned once more. "What were you up to these past two days? And who's the lass?"

"Well…" Giselbert sighed. "I suppose I will have to tell you about the…wait…lass? What lass?" Lanric's grin grew wider. "Oh, don't be coy. The lass who dragged you to the Temple doorstep? The one in the mannish clothes?"

"The suspicious-looking one?"

"Yes, that….one…." Lanric's frantic intonation slowed to a slur as his slippery grin gradually fadded. Giselbert, on the other hand, perked up. The voice was cool and gentle, reminding him of an autumn breeze. Suddenly it struck him. He knew this voice! He snapped his head towards Lanric, or rather, the lass behind him.

Giselbert agreed with Lanric. Her garb, the same as she wore the previous night, was masculine. However, rather than concealing her feminine figure, it served to emphasize it. The coat was cut such that it hugged her petite frame perfectly, her wide leather belt showed off her thin waist, and the daggers she wore attention to her slender thighs.

What truly surprised him, however, was the one donning such unusual trappings. From what little he had glimpsed of her the night before, he guessed that she was pretty, but never could he have imagined her to be this… flawless. Her face was heart-shaped, her skin almost porcelain. Her long, flowing hair shimmered upon her shoulders. Most striking, however, were her eyes, as magnificent as frozen emeralds.

She may have been diminutive in stature, but Giselbert could not help but feel overwhelmed by her. Her straight posture, her cool expression, the cold, calculating and critical gaze… She had an air of command about her. However, the former watchman could not help but notice the absence of luster in her eyes, the burden on her shoulders…

"A mordschlag to the head," the lass commented. "And you are still alive."

"Well," Giselbert rapped his knuckles against the side of his head, "I have a hard head."

"Too thick headed to die, I see."

Giselbert pursed his lips, wearing the look of having being slapped. The 'ice princess' gazed upon him impassively, as cold and unmoved as gray walls. Lanric fidgeted, feeling the prickling on his skin. The patients were growing silent, glancing towards their direction every so often. It seemed as though the air around them had grown cold, cold enough Lanric swore he saw frost forming right under his very feet. The lass and the former watchman ignored him and his obvious discomfort, engrossed in their staring competition.

Lanric had enough. He cleared his throat and got up with a start.

The watchman wore his best smile as he greeted the lass, "I see you have recovered, Frau…." The young girl turned to him, wearing a small but warmless smile, "Tannenbaum. Frau Liselotte Tannenbaum. Thank you for your kind concern, Herr Lanric Schwart."

Lanric dropped his smile and knitted his brow. The lass brought her fist to her mouth and giggled, though as Giselbert observed, her giggle sounded forced. "I apologize for my rudeness, but I overheard your conversation," she smiled politely. Lanric eased up upon hearing her answer. "Ah, right…so…" his eyes fluttering wildly. He spun to his back, dragged a stool to the side of the sleeping mat and patted it. He then wore his most winning smile as he held out his hand, "Perhaps I can relief you of your burden?"

Tannenbaum, still wearing her polite smile, nodded. She removed her knapsack, along with the crossbow and the black cane hooked to its strap, and carefully placed them in his hands. Giselbert watched as his friend laid the leather knapsack and noted the suppleness of its leather.

Giselbert then studied the crossbow and the black cane, which Lanric laid beside the knapsack. The crossbow's rest was sculpted into the likeness of an eagle's head. Its trigger was similar to those of a firearm's. He could see an intricate mechanism built into its stock, likely to aid in the cocking of the bowstring.

The cane was entirely straight. Its head was furnished with a silver bulb, with the imagery of the Imperial Cross stamped onto it. He noticed that the cane was furrowed at the one-seventh mark, close to the handle.

Both the crossbow and the cane were crafted out of solid, black wood. He knew this wood, having seen them peddled with exorbitant prices by the merchants of the Market District, and he knew that this wood was not of Laurelorn forest. "Drakwald," he thought.

Giselbert's eyes were then drawn to her steel-tipped riding boots and her coarsegloves, both fastened to her slender limbs by the means of belts and buckles. The leather too was supple and of fine texture, like the knapsack.

His eyes trailed upwards, from her boots, following the leggings wrapping her slender thighs, up to the coat hugging her slender frame, the chapka hanging upon her belt and the black scarf wound around her neck. He noted that the leather coat, boots and coarsegloves too were of fine leather. The collar of the coat and the chapka was lined with fine, dark brown fur. Likely fox fur, he decided. The scarf around her neck was of fine wool.

Noting the quality of the materials and the craftsmanship of her armaments, he formed his conclusion.

"Sword. Hand and a halfter. Flattened diamond cross section, slightly convex face, no fuller" spoke the lass suddenly. Held in her small hands was a partially drawn sword, the very same the scruffy patient stole the night before.

"Thirty four inches in length. S-curved crossguard. Bulge in the middle of the grip. Wheel-shaped pommel. Typography type eighteen c. Standard Nordland Silversmith's Guild forgework. I believe this is yours?" she recited as she held out the sword. Giselbert glanced at the sword, and then at Tannenbaum. "Thanks," he grunted as he received the sword and laid it beside his mat.

Giselbert narrowed his eyes as he turned to Lanric. He asked, a little forcefully, "Lanric, what did you mean 'recover'?" Lanric chuckled, "Well, last night, she hauled your heavy arse to the Temple doorstep, the poor thing. Can't you treat a delicate flower right?"

Giselbert opened his mouth, before closing it again. He then shot a glare at Tannenbaum. Tannenbaum simply stared back, wearing her polite smile, her eyes never leaving him as she lowered herself onto the stool.

"So…" Lanric spoke suddenly, jolting Giselbert from his study. "How did the two of you meet?"

The scruffy patient grumbled. He shot an irritable look at Lanric and answered, with a low, growling voice, "We met last night. Pursuing certain felons. The cowled kind."

"Yes," replied Tannenbaum. "You thought me poaching your prey."

Lanric looked at the two of them questioningly. "What happened last night?" he asked.

"I was investigating the warehouse north side of the Docks District, close to the Nordland XI," Giselbert recalled. "We met and decided to work together briefly."

"I suppose I have you to thank for," said former watchman, his statement directed at Tannenbaum. Tannenbaum smiled politely and nodded, though her eyes did not leave him, "I will not allow a servant of Sigmar to die in vain."

"Wait," Lanric looked at the two questioningly, "What did he do this time?"

Tannenbaum sighed, for perhaps the first time that morning, and replied, "The dummkopf engaged the cowled men." She glanced at the patient, "On the contrary of my instructions." Giselbert emitted a low growl. He then demanded hoarsely, "Give me some credit here, will ya? I downed four of them, and almost downed a fifth!" "No credit for vain efforts," the lass cooly replied.

The former watchman scowled.

Tannenbaum sighed, "But I suppose I can credit you for tenacity. Uncouth though your methods may be, there is no denying the results. Pray tell me, how does a youth of seventeen winters come to possess such skills?"

"Well, you can't live this long in the slums without picking up some tricks of your own," replied Giselbert, almost braggingly. "Oh, don't listen to him," Lanric chuckled. "The fellow used to slug it out in the pits."

"You aren't supposed to tell anyone that!" Giselbert snapped. Lanric sneered at his former partner while Giselbert seethed. Tannenbaum had gone silent, head bowed, holding her chin, looking upon her lap. Giselbert ignored her, his attention focused on his friend, "And don't think I didn't notice! You used to cart half the smuggled goods to the fence after our raids!" "Hey!" Lanric barked.

"The pits?" interrupted Tannenbaum. Impassive though her expression may be, there was an undisguised glimmer of interest in her eyes. Giselbert narrowed his eyes as he glared at the lass. He looked warningly at Lanric. Ignoring his fierce gaze, Lanric cleared his throat and imparted the tale.

"Yes, the pits. The sod used to slug other sods in the pits under the Skinned Cat Tavern. You have to understand. Meagre wages and the captain had a habit of docking his pay. Have to feed the family somehow, aye?"

"Used to? When did he stop?"

Lanric replied, sounding a little sorry, "Last year. The captain threatened to throw him into the cell…."

"Mother Bertha! Mother Bertha!" cried a Shallyan nun. "What is it, Sister Cecilia?" the matriarch, Mother Bertha, hurried after the distressed nun. "What happened?" "It's Erich! He...he has disappeared!" Sister Cecilia wailed.

Lanric sighed as he put on his helmet. Sounding a little sorry, he concluded his tale, "Well, would love to tell you more, but duty calls." He then turned towards Giselbert, wearing a slippery grin, "And you behave yourself in front of a lady!" "I am not THAT uncouth!" Giselbert snapped at Lanric. Lanric grinned and chuckled in reply.

"Well…." Giselbert rubbed his head. "If you are ever stuck, I'm here." Lanric placed his palm on Giselbert's shoulder and smiled, "I am not going to bother you, but thanks for the offer. Watch yourself, Gis." He turned and nodded at Frau Tannenbaum, "Frau Tannenbaum." Frau Tannenbaum, raised her head, smiled politely and nodded back.

As soon as the watchman was out of sight, the lass and the former watchman resumed glaring at each other. Giselbert broke the silence, "So, what does a Reikland noble daughter want from me?"

"Noble daughter?" Tannenbaum tilted her head slightly.

"Supple leather," Giselbert pointed his finger at Tannenbaum aggressively, "fine wool, fox fur, Drakwald wood. All these cost a fortune. You are obviously rich. And you know a thing or two about swords. Either you are the daughter of an arms merchant or a nob. If you are a daughter of a crown grubber, you wouldn't be wasting your time sneaking about last night. Too busy learning to rob sods in broad daylight. That leaves nob as the only conclusion. Now, what do you want from me? This is obviously not a social visit."

"I see you still have your wits about you," Tannenbaum smiled politely. She stood up and curtsied, or rather, she performed a close impression of one, "Allow me to reintroduce myself."

"Frau Liselotte Tannenbaum." She slid her right arm into her pouch and rifled through it. She pulled out a gold medallion and threw it at the former watchman. The former watchman caught the medallion. He squinted his eyes and frowned as he examined the medallion.

Intricately carved onto the medallion was an image of Sigmar's warhammer, the Ghal Maraz, wroughted in flames. Giselbert knew this emblem, what it represented. He had seen this image numerous times during his first year as a watchman. The former captain required his men to memorize all emblems, seals and insignias of all Imperial organizations they will answer to. He knew this to be the Inquisitorial Seal, the badge of a witch hunter, granted to their retinues to authorize them to act on their behalf. He turned the medallion around and true enough, there was a series of numbers finely etched into its back, verifying its authenticity.

He understood what this meant.

Giselbert placed the seal back the lass's open palm, "Herr Giselbert Gottschalk."

"Witch hunter's retinue you may be, I still do not know your motives." "For as long as I serve Him, does it matter?" Tannenbaum replied as she took her seat.

Giselbert gave her a doubtful look. He shrugged and relented, "Fine. What do you wish to know?"

Tannenbaum slid her hand to her back. Her shoulder jerked as she unclasped a leather-bound notebook from her belt. She laid the notebook on her lap and drew a thin piece of charcoal. She then looked at him, tapping the piece of charcoal against the coarse pages of the notebook, and said coldly, "Everything."

Giselbert frowned. He laid his head against the pillar, rolling his eyes back as he tried to recollect the events of the previous day. He wiped his sweaty brow and turned to the witch hunter's retinue. The former watchman then looked towards the water jug. He retrieved it, gulped down its contents and told his tale.

He regurgitated everything he had seen and heard, every minute detail. He detailed his experience as a stevedore and how he witnessed the cargoes, contained in crates bearing the seal of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild, being loaded onto the three docked carracks directly from the wagon. Tannenbaum pressed him for names, but he insisted that he couldn't possibly know, as the names were not displayed on the hulls and insisted, even more loudly, that she should be interrogating the Port Authorities for that information instead.

He then detailed his investigations in the tavern Nordland XI and how there was a notable absence of sailors in the tavern. Tannenbaum questioned his basis for treating this as suspicious. Giselbert reasoned that if the cargoes were loaded onto the carracks directly from the wagons, it showed that the merchant who employed the ships must be in a hurry to ship the cargo to whatever destination he intended. Thus, the sailors will wait in the nearest taverns and inns. Nordland XI was the nearest tavern to the warehouse. Therefore, their absence was suspicious.

He moved on to his snooping about in the warehouse, on the absence of guards and of the activities of the cultists. He mentioned that the 'unique' weapons found deeper in the crates, as well as the presence of unmarked crates containing bombs (which he remarked was stolen from him by the lass. She insisted that it was necessary).

He then spoke of what he heard as he dug through the rubble concealing the narrow entrance into the skaven tunnel. He mentioned that the heretics answered to one 'Executioner' and his advisors, and that they had orders to seek warpstone for purposes yet unknown. He spoke of how he followed the heretics, how they searched the strange wreckages in the tunnels, their battle with another group of cultists close to the tunnel walls.

"And thus you decided to ambush them despite your obvious illness," Tannenbaum shook her head disapprovingly. "If I hadn't done that, the family that lives beyond that wall will die," Giselbert shrugged. "What do you expect me to do? Soil my breeches and crawl away?" "Had you chose escape, your survival would be guaranteed and you will certainly relay this information," Tannenbaum answered. "Information we can use to end this heresy." "Well, it turned out all right in the end, didn't it?" Giselbert grumbled. "Credited to your good fortune," Tannenbaum deadpanned. She paused for a moment, before she added, "and your prowess. However, be reminded that Ranald does not suffer fools everlong."

"So tell me, Herr Gottschalk," Tannenbaum leaned forward, her chin resting at the back of her entwined fingers, "What do you make of all these?"

"From what I could gather, the cultists worked in small, autonomous groups, answering to this Executioner and his advisors, and that they are engaged in a bloody rivalry for reasons unknown. It is clear, however, that the cult possesses considerable resources, likely provided by the merchant who hired those ships. The weapons they utilize, though wicked, are quite brittle, considering how one of them shattered against my sword. I believe they are supplied by apprentice blacksmiths or sculptors thinking themselves blacksmiths."

"And how would you progress with this investigation?" asked Tannenbaum.

Giselbert rubbed his chin, "There are two leads: this merchant and the Nordland Silversmith's Guild. I will talk to the Port Authorities and the Merchant's Guild; see if I could get any evidence pointing to some shady deals involving the merchant and the Guild. At least that is what I will do were I still in uniform. As I am now," Giselbert sighed as he stared at the ceiling, "I will be forced to steal into their compounds, find records and other evidence." He then turned to Tannenbaum, his expression harder than ever, "And I would like to detain and interrogate one of the cultists, preferably the group leaders. They seem to be the most knowing sorts. Likely, they know what is really going on, what the Executioner is planning…."

"I was right about you," interrupted Tannenbaum. Giselbert stared at her. Though she spoke with her usual cool voice, Giselbert thought she sounded a little…pleased. He frowned. The lass straightened her posture, wearing her usual polite smile. She stood up, adjusting and tucking her hair under her scarf as she declared, "Starting from today, you will answer to Frau Fruehauf, and you will answer to me." She threw her knapsack over her narrow shoulders and strapped on her cane and crossbow. "Your basic wage is one crown per day, subjected to increment or decrement based on performance and results."

"However," her expression hardened, growing more severe. Her emerald-green eyes and her voice were even colder than previously, cold enough to freeze the blood of murderers, "you will not be paid for vain efforts."

Giselbert scowled. Noticing his dissastifaction, Tannenbaum replied, "We discourage recklessness." She placed her chapka onto her head, allowing the ear flaps to fall upon her cheeks. She then glanced at the watchman and added, "Your employment begins upon your full recovery. For now, see to your health. A sick former watchman is of no use to anyone."

"And how do I find you?" Giselbert queried, as the lass turned to leave. Tannenbaum turned her head slightly, and answered coldly, "You don't."

Giselbert blinked. He looked to his lap as he attempted to analyze her words. He turned to her, his mouth opened. He blinked once more. He closed his mouth and frowned.

Tannenbaum was gone.

* * *

Like waves of the stormy seas, the grey, mountainous clouds rolled across the skies, casting their shroud across Salzenmund. The winds that carried them howled fiercely, scattering dried leaves, debris and ashes across the streets, toppling shanty huts and make-shift tents, threatening to tear the ships off their anchors.

Yet, life moved on despite the chill and the bite of the northern wind. The denizens of the Slums District milled along the streets around the Temple of Shallya, patronizing the make-shift stalls pitched up along the sides of the streets. Not even the toppling of the stalls could prevent business from continuing.

The stallkeepers and the flea-bitten housewives argued and bargained bitterly over the prices of second hand goods and salvaged merchandises, trying to be heard in spite of the wind and each other. So loud was the commotion it drowned out the tolling of the Temple bells and the chants emanating from its halls.

Standing at the Temple doorstep was a petite, delicate girl, dressed in a dark brown coat. Though her clothes were, by the standards of the Empire, masculine, they did not hide any of her feminine features. Instead, they were emphasized. Her belt showed her thin waist, her coat cut to fit her slender frame, her leggings and daggers hugged her slender thighs.

The wind howled on, casting dried leaves and branches upon the young girl. The girl shut her eyelids tight, clinging to her chapka and scarf, looking as though she was on the verge of being blown away. As the wind died down, she slowly opened her green eyes, green as pine trees.

Her eyes were cold like frozen emeralds, ill-fitting her snow-white skin and her small, delicate stature. She cast her gaze upon the Temple Courtyard, taking in the sights and sounds of her surroundings, like a little fox surveying its hunting ground. The fountain before her was dry. The trees lining the grey walls stretched their gnarly branches towards the sky. The dried leaves which once carpeted the grassy field and cobblestones were dancing with the breeze.

The young lass, Liselotte Tannenbaum, adjusted her chapka, so that its ear flaps will not hinder her sights. She pulled, tugged, straightened and adjusted her scarf, concealing her fine, silky golden hair and her blushing cheeks beneath it. She brought her small hands, clad in dark brown coarsegloves, close to her cheeks, the vapors emanated from her mouth swirling between her slender fingers.

Tannenbaum stretched out her slender legs and strode swiftly yet cautiously down the stairs. As she reached the fountain, she suddenly stopped. Tannenbaum narrowed her eyes slightly, looking upon a lean man in a watchman's trappings, standing beside the portal.

The watchman, noticing her approach, left his roost and walked towards her. He was wearing a dark expression, his lips frowning and his cheeks pallid despite the biting wind. He gave Tannenbaum a cold, hard look, as though about to inflict great injuries and insults. While his glare was fearsome, the young lass showed no signs of being affected. Her green eyes were focused upon him; her slightly blushed cheeks neither paled nor darkened and her posture still and relaxed.

Lanric's shoulders tensed as his hand leapt for his sword. He blinked as soon as his hand touched his pommel. He wore a look of puzzlement. After a moment, his hand left his sword as he straightened his posture and relaxed slightly. Tannenbaum had merely curtsied.

"Cold weather, isn't it, Herr Schwart?" Tannenbaum greeted. "It would seem that Ulric is getting impatient."

"Don't be coy, you know why I am here," Lanric growled.

Tannenbaum tore her eyes from the clouds overhead and cast it upon the watchman. Whether her cold, critical gaze affected him, he showed no sign. Tannenbaum replied, her tone level and slightly cold, betraying no fear or anxiety, "Yes, 'tis about Herr Gottschalk, is it not?"

"So you do know," Lanric scowled. "Then you know what I am going to ask." Tannenbaum tilted her head slightly, giving him a puzzled look. However, her eyes were cold as usual, bring question to her sincerity. Lanric knitted his brow. He spat, "What does Frau Fruehauf intend to do with him?"

"You Nordlanders never cease to surprise me," Tannenbaum spoke. "Yes, Herr Gottschalk has now come into His service. However, I must admit, it was I who advised his recruitment."

With a mighty cry, Lanric Schwart lunged upon and seized Tannenbaum by her collar. Her limbs flailed as he hoisted her up and shook her violently. "Have you any idea what you just did? You are sending him to his deaths!" Lanric snarled. Tannenbaum, however, was unmoved, gazing upon him with impassive eyes.

"And do you think he will not charge towards his doom without our involvement?"

Lanric's scowl slowly faded. He cautiously, almost gently, lowered her down. He sighed heavily and held his forehead. He then looked upon her once more, frowning. "You are right," he spoke, "The sod ain't one to hide in a hole when there's trouble. Damn it, I followed him to hell and back more times than I can count!"

Tannenbaum nodded, "With our guidance however, he will not be charging blindly to certain doom."

Lanric blinked once more. His lips curled into a grin as he let out a hoarse laugh. "Charging blindly?" he shook his head. "Is that what you think he will do? Charging blindly?"

"Listen, Tannenbaum. I know the sod for three years now, getting into all sorts of trouble. I will tell you this; Giselbert is not as reckless as you think. He does not take his gambles lightly. And do not expect him to obey blindly either. If you do not believe me, go ask Captain Josef Aushwitz. Or better, the old captain."

"Now that I have said my piece, it is time for me to get back to work," said Lanric as he patted his leather bound notebook and prepared to depart. He scarcely lifted his boots as he stopped in his tracks. "What do you expect to discover from the disappearance of Erich Kastner?" Tannenbaum had asked.

Lanric replied, "If I am lucky, he is skulking around in a tavern somewhere. If I am not, the cultists got him."

"I see," said Tannenbaum. "Sigmar speed your way then."

Lanric shot her a sideways glance and grunted before marching away.

* * *

It was an early Salzenmund afternoon. The autumn chill had seeped into the Salzenmund Watch headquarter. So cold was the interior of the headquarters that the watchmen had to wear their greatcoats and cloaks and hurdle in corners. Quite a number of them were drunk, singing bawdy songs like sailors, having consumed copious amounts of ale in an attempt to keep warm.

Beyond that, it was business as usual, despite the absence of the captain and the witch hunter. There was, however, the addition of the Sigmarite warrior priest, Brother Gottlieb. Brother Gottlieb was dressed in his usual, recently repaired armored cassock. He stood at one corner, beside a massive iron pot, propped onto the stove, holding a ladle in his massive fist.

Brother Gottlieb thrust a warm bowl of gruel into the waiting hands of the senior watchman, Emmanuel Marx. Emmanuel knitted his brow. The gruel was oilier than what he was accustomed to, courtesy of the three thick strips of meat buried beneath the moist grains. He glanced at Brother Gottlieb, who smiled genially at him and muttered a prayer. Emmanuel nodded at the warrior priest and strode towards the gathered desks.

Just as Emmanuel set his bowl on the desk, a fierce wind blew into the headquarters, toppling his bowl. The watchmen and clerk swore as paperwork soared across the room. Frowning, Emmanuel turned towards the door, from whence the wind came.

Standing at the door was the dread figure of the witch hunter herself. Recognising the arrivals, the watchmen and the clerk fell silent and returned to their work and their discussion, trying their best to ignore the presence of the dark creature.

The witch hunter sneezed softly as she closed the door behind her and strode towards the Captain's Desk. Emmanuel, ignoring his spilled bowl, started towards the witch hunter. He stopped, just as he was about to call out to her, and frowned. Hansel Aushwitz, the useless son of the now-crippled captain, Josef Aushwitz, had intercepted the witch hunter.

"Milady," said Hansel with a terribly nasal voice, wearing his most charming smile. "Allow me to help..." The witch hunter brushed him aside, disinterested in his offer. Hansel stood dumbfounded, confused by what had happened. Emmanuel's frown faded somewhat, when he realised that the witch hunter was carrying a stack of paperwork under her thin arm.

The former lieutenant waited for the witch hunter to set her parchments and scrolls onto the Captain's Desk before approaching her. The witch hunter, aware of his approach, turned to gaze upon him. Emmanuel paused in his tracks. His breathing grew heavier, more difficult, as soon as he felt her cold gaze upon him. He swallowed his saliva, adjusted his collar and started towards her once more.

"Where have you been?" he asked with the coldest tone he could muster. The witch hunter pulled up the heavy chair and took her seat. She then replied calmly, "Meeting my colleagues."

Emmanuel's frown intensified as he glanced at the stacks of documents the witch hunter had stacked onto the desk. "You may speak, Herr Marx," said the witch hunter. Emmanuel turned his gaze towards the cloaked girl. He breathed deeply, cleared the saliva and mucus clogging his throat and answered, "Three more murders last night. Same as yesterday. Doors locked inside, no eye witnesses. Neighbours reported hearing the sound of digging beneath their basements. Dispatched three groups to investigate," he reported.

"And I did a little digging about the warehouse this morning. Had to….ah….. 'convince' the clerk in the Port Authorities building….." "You meant a bribe," the witch hunter deduced. Emmanuel closed his mouth and frowned once more. After a while, he sighed and answered, "….yes."

"Continue," the Witch Hunter gestured. "I have the names of the ships. They were the St. Maurus, the Mannslieb and the Jewel of Lustria. They have docking rights until the next Wellentag," Emmanuel continued his report. "The docking fees of these three ships were paid for by the proprietor of the Accum Trading Company, Arnold Accum."

"What do you know of Arnold Accum?" she asked. "Arnold Accum trades in weapons, armor and other metalworks. He dabbles in fur trade and lumber trade as well. He has a…..foul reputation."

"Explain," requested the witch hunter as she opened a leather bound notebook and produced a piece of charcoal. "I do not know the details but from the way I hear it, he is known as a sort of a bully within the Salzenmund Merchant's Guild. I do know for certain that he has a sort of a deal, a contract or a partnership or whatever with the Nordland Silversmith's Guild," answered the senior watchman.

Frau Fruehauf paused for a moment. She then queried, "Any further details?" "No. We intend to speak with the Guild about this matter but I'm afraid we might be denied access into their records. The Guild dislikes government involvement in their business and prefers to keep their problems to themselves. Unsurprising seeing how the government keeps trying to control their pricing of goods and bother them about tariffs."

"Do what you can to acquire information about Arnold Accum. I would like to know the nature of his business, his associates, his personal assets and his history. Maintain discretion," ordered Fruehauf. Emmanuel nodded and gave her a brief salute. As he turned to leave to fulfill his orders, he jumped. The witch hunter had spoken again, and the contents of her words surprised him, "And before I forget, do report all your expenses."

Emmanuel gave the witch hunter a quizzical look. He opened his mouth briefly before closing it again. He frowned and bowed. Before he could leave however, the witch hunter spoke yet again, "Who amongst the Watch has the most experience in combat?" Emmanuel knitted his brow as he stared at the witch hunter. As usual, the witch hunter was unreadable, what with her hat and her cloak concealing her features and her lack of body gesture. His lips quivered as he answered, "That would be Olaf Bauer, milady."

"Summon him," ordered the witch hunter as she retrieved one of her parchments.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: The Howling Doom**

Ra-tat-tat-tat!

The window shuttles rattled, battered by the howling wind.

Lanric Schwart sneezed and shivered. Rubbing the bottom of his nose, he uttered "Should had returned to headquarters, collect my greatcoat and get more layers under this armor." The young watchman drew his cloak close, trying to stifle the cold, as he surveyed the room. Like any typical bachelor's apartment, it was filthy and cramped. The floor bore many stains and was littered with bottles reeking of weeks old stale ale. The ceilings were covered in cobwebs, each occupied by spiders the size of his nose. Lanric peered towards the rattling window, encrusted in thick brown stains, and beheld the very thick layer of dust upon its window sills and gnawed holes in its frames.

His eyes then fell onto the bed below the window. Its bedsheets were stained yellow, its blanket had more in common with moldy vellum than fabrics. Even from where he stood, Lanric could smell the oily, sweet-sour stench clinging onto the sheets.

The rusty stove, wedged into a corner directly at the foot of the bed, laid cold. The sack of charcoal, propped onto its side, was seemingly undisturbed.

Lanric scraped the steel skin of his helmet. He removed his arm and stared at his fingers and frowned. He sighed, took off his helmet, placed it on the table and resumed scratching his flaky scalp. The young, scarred watchman could feel unfriendly eyes upon into his back. Frowning, he turned to face the landlady.

The landlady, standing at the doorway, was a squat, unpleasant figure dressed in a sickly green dress. Her limbs were thick as tree trunks and her legs were bent, barely able to bear her girth. Her hair was tied up in a bun, revealing the rough and spotty skin upon her cheeks and forehead. Her cheeks were flabby and drooping, reminding Lanric of a cross between a mastiff and a toad.

"So..." said Lanric, "When did you last see Erich Kastner?" And just as he had expected, the landlady, Frau Valerie Bullenbeiser, answer with a harsh croak, "You tell me! Finding him is your business, not mine!" "I am a watchman," Lanric said slowly, "Not a wizard or a fortune teller. I can't simply divine the whereabouts of the tenant."

"Hmmph!" Valerie huffed, "Some watchman you are. I hope he is not dead. Last I saw him was two nights ago. Caught him sneaking behind my back trying to avoid paying his rent." The landlady walked up to Lanric and stabbed her stubby fingers into his chest as she listed, "Well, you find him, you drag him back here, you make him cough out the pences he owes me and you throw him out!"

"If you need anything, I will be sweeping the floor downstairs. Those little rats always leave a mess."

Lanric flinched slightly to the sound of the slamming door. He watched the door creaking pitifully and the squat silhouette trampling down the stairs. Scratching his head, he looked around and pondered, "What now?"

Lanric drew his baton and approached the window. He gagged, having caught a whiff of the foul odor clinging to the sheets below. Covering his nose, he leaned over the bed and poked at the window. The window creaked and groaned but it held against his rough treatment, neither falling off its frame nor shattering under his repeated poking and prodding. Lanric smiled, amused, "Just like Giselbert."

The youth then examined the door. The door was warped but otherwise undamaged. The lock, however, was shattered, its remains scattered on the corridor outside. Lanric wondered if he should had checked the lock for signs of tampering before breaking it. "Too late to fret over it now," he thought.

Lanric rifled through the drawers, sifting through the moth-eaten garments within. He paused. Hidden beneath the layers upon layers of stained and smelly clothes was a small, iron box. He fished out the box and placed it on the table. He ripped open its lid and was greeted by the stinging odor of weirdroot snuff.

* * *

Lanric sneezed for what seemed to be the sixtieth time that day. "Sigmar damn it," he swore while rubbing his nose, "Is Ulric getting impatient?" The wind howled fiercer, strong enough to uproot him from where he stood. Lanric, in his panic, cried out his plea for clemency to the God of Wolves, War and Winter. Seemingly appeased, the wind died down. Lanric straightened his helmet, adjusted his cloak, made the sign of Ulric and uttered an insincere 'thank you'.

Before the young watchman and wedged between an apartment and a row of shophouses was a dirty, narrow building. Its stairway and the grounds around it were littered with blank-eyed, slack-jawed weirdroot addicts and snoring drunks, all oblivious to the cold despite their tattered jackets and thin clothes. Hanging over them on a single rusty chain was a sign, bearing the image of a rampaging boar. The sign of The Drunk Boar.

With a shrug, Lanric uttered a prayer and performed Sigmar's sign, the sign of the hammer. As soon as he completed his prayer and his plea to the patron god of the Empire, a loud, panicked cry issued from the tavern. Lanric got over his surprise and quickly deduced what had happened. He leaped into action, dashing up the stairs and yanked open the door. He pushed through the crowd towards the bar counter, picking up a toppled stool along his path.

Standing before the bar counter was a man larger and older than he was. A strong set of limbs, a chiseled musculature, he had the very formidable look of a military man. However, his unfocused eyes and his thick, unkempt beard suggested madness.

The man, dressed in the trappings of a Salzenmund watchman, was screaming and shouting at the crowd, brandishing his bloodied sword, thrusting and swinging wildly as though trying to repel some unseen assailant.

"Get away from me, you fiends!"

Lanric could see three men lying at the watchman's feet, moaning and groaning as they clutched the gashes, cuts and severed stumps, trying to staunch their bleeding. Large, broad with nasty scars and gang tattoos on their shoulders. He knew they were members of one of the local gangs, and he could guess what had happened.

"Olaf," Lanric spoke softly as he approached the watchman. The mad watchman raised his sword and stood on his guard. As Lanric took a step forward, Olaf retreated. His face was a mask of terror. Olaf kept retreating until his ankles knocked against the bar counter. He frantically looked back and forth, at Lanric and his feet, his panic growing with each movement.

Lanric maintained a tight grip on his stool as he cautiously moved towards Olaf. "It's me, Lanric. Not any daemon, Lanric," he said gently. "Lanric, remember? Your...woah!" Lanric barely dodged the blade, sweeping from above. Swearing, Lanric swung his stool at Olaf's blade. The sword struck and bit deeply in its seat. Olaf, with a growl, tugged at his sword. He glanced at hs blade and tugged at it more frantically, and yet, it would not come loose. Lanric seized the opportunity, and with one sharp motion, yanked the weapon from the mad watchman's grip.

Without delay, Olaf lunged at Lanric and throttled him violently, the stool clattering at his feet. Lanric knew Olaf intended to choke the life out of him and unhesitatingly slammed his protected forehead into the watchman's helmet. Olaf lurched backwards with a grunt. Lanric wobbled on his feet, trying to regain his bearings. Seeing Olaf still disoriented, Lanric quickly lunged at him. He immobilized Olaf, removed his helmet and slapped him twice.

"Get ahold of yourself!"

Olaf blinked. He stared at Lanric with a confused look. "Lan...Lanric?" he asked slowly.

"What was I doing? Where did the daemons...oh..."

Olaf stared at the fallen thugs. He then looked at the pool of blood around them, and then at his sword, still stuck to the toppled stool. He realized that his gloves were stained with blood. He dabbed at his helmet and found his finger stained crimson. A realization dawned upon him, and he despaired.

"What had I done?"

Lanric shrugged, "Whatever they did, they probably deserved it."

Olaf slumped onto his seat and wept. He withered away from the accusing eyes of the patrons. He gazed into the fireplace, and Lanric could see a tear falling down his cheek. He shook his head. He glared at the crowd and, gestured at the fallen gangers and ordered forcefully, "Get these people to the Temple! Now!"

The crowd was shocked by the strength in his voice. Getting over their surprise, three of the beefier patrons dragged the gangers out of the door and, presumably, to the Temple. Lanric then glared at Jurgen, the pot-bellied and balding tavernmaster, who up till now was cowering under the bar counter.

"And get me a pint!" Lanric glanced at Olaf and corrected himself, "Ten pints!"

* * *

The excitement had abated and the patrons had returned to their usual habits. The more sober amongst them were gossiping amongst each other, though they do sneak glances at the bloodied sword, still stuck in the stool and lying before the bar counter, and the watchmen involved in the earlier spectacle. Both watchmen ignored them completely, having their own matters to attend to.

Jurgen slammed a tankard onto the counter, spilling some of the frothy beverages onto Lanric's face. Lanric glared a Jurgen fiercely. Jurgen simply grunted, looked away and attended to his kegs. Shaking his head, Lanric retrieved one of the tankards and approached the sullen war veteran. "Have a drink," said Lanric.

"Now, what are you doing here?"

Olaf stared at his legs. After a moment, he replied sullenly, "The witch hunter sent me." The tavern immediately fell silent. Lanric glanced around, and true enough, all eyes were on them. After a while, the patrons then started whispering amongst each other. Lanric could hear words such as 'heretic', 'witch', 'elves', 'burning' and such floating about in the air.

"Said you need backup," Olaf continued. "Told me to find you in this address or the nearby taverns. Thought you wouldn't be in the apartment so I came here instead."

Lanric swiped the small parchment held between Olaf's finger. He squinted as he read the thin, cursive handwriting upon it, and he found Erich's address on it. He wondered how she knew this address. It then dawned upon him that the witch hunter's retinue, that Tannenbaum lass, must had eavesdropped on him.

Still, he questioned her decision to send Olaf, of all watchmen, to assist him.

"So, are we done?" Olaf whimpered, glancing nervously at the staring patrons. "I think I would like to be far from here." "Olaf, I can't leave. This..." Lanric wore a dirty look as he looked around, "'respectable establishment' is my only lead." Lanric smiled gently as he patted Olaf's shoulder. "I think you need to go. Far away from all this filth. You could use the fresh air."

"Can't, Lanric," Olaf shrugged. "I already told her she can count on me for this assignment." Lanric planted his palm on his forehead and shook his head. "Damn that Fruehauf, sending a traumatized war veteran into a cesspit..."

Lanric snatched another tankard of ale and thrust at Olaf. "Well, bear with me. Give me a few moments and we will be on our way."

Olaf sipped on his second tankard of ale while looking into the fireplace, wearing a haunted look. Shrugging his shoulders, Lanric walked up to Jurgen. Jurgen, who was scrubbing the insides of the tankards, grunted, "Pay your bills and get out." He then looked at Olaf and added, "And take that mad dog with you."

"We will, but after we get our answers," Lanric smiled defiantly. "To hell with your questions, Lanric! You and that Gottschalk lad had brought nothing but trouble to my respectable establishment!" Jurgen barked. "'Respectable' establishment? After all that weirdroot you peddled?" Lanric retorted. Jurgen slammed the tankard onto the counter and growled, "Weirdroot ain't illegal, you dolt! Now get out or I throw you out!"

"Don't make threats you can't carry out, Jurgen," Lanric smirked. "And you ought to invest in real enforcers, not those weirdroot-addled idiots." Lanric gestured at Olaf, who was staring at the fireplace while sipping on his ale, "And my friend there is an even better fighter than the 'Gottschalk lad'. And when the blood is up, he does not hesitate to kill. You wouldn't want blood on your hands now, would you?"

Jurgen's cheeks flushed red. His eyes were almost popping out from his sockets. After a while, he rubbed his bald scalp and sighed, "Ask your questions and make it quick!" "I know you will see reason," Lanric grinned. "Alright. You probably heard about this already, but I am going to say it anyway. Erich Kastner, one of your customers. He disappeared two nights ago. Know anything about that?"

"Erich Kastner, eh?" Jurgen grumbled. "Yeah, I know him. Skinny lad, smells like dog droppings. Yeah, I know him. Did you say he disappeared?" Lanric nodded. "Damn it! He still haven't paid his tabs!" "Maybe that is why he disappeared?" Lanric postulated. "Quit accusing me! You know I don't pay thugs to rough up customers, I only pay them to get you boys off my back!"

Jurgen looked around before huncing over the counter and dropped his voice into a whisper, "Look, Erich is not the only person who disappeared. Last I heard, O' Albert over at 6th Laurelorn Street, Matilda over at 5th Franz Avenue and at least ten more had also disappeared. Apparently, they went away some place but they never went home!"

Lanric, surprised, exclaimed, "Wait, you said Erich's not the only person who has disappeared?" Jurgen nodded, "Aye, at least another dozen more. Look, if this gets you out of my tavern, I will give you names." "Why wasn't all these reported?" demanded the watchman. "With that captain and the witch hunter, who would?" Jurgen shrugged.

"You knew the witch hunter set up shop in the headquarters?"

"Why wouldn't I? The patrons wouldn't shut up about it!" Jurgen swung his arms and gestured at his customers. "'So and so must be a witch!', 'The town's going to burn!', 'It's the elves' fault!'."

"Never shut up about it! It's either that, or they are wondering why the Watch and Gausser's boys aren't doing anything to protect them!" Lanric opened his mouth, then closed it again and lowered his gase. He realized he could not refute Olaf's accusations. Jurgen, realizing that Lanric was tongue-tied, wore a very large grin.

"Anyway..." Jurgen grin grew as he leaned closer, "Is it true what I heard? The witch hunter is a lass?" Lanric shot him a warning look as he replied, "She's an ice princess."

"I wouldn't touch her if I were you. I still rather like my knees."

* * *

It was already late evening when Lanric had finished interviewing an old man about the disappearance of his neighbours. The old man bowed low as he shut the door. Lanric raised his lantern to illuminate his notebook and frowned. It occurred to him that he had frowned very frequently recently, and it didn't take him long to know why. The murder of Ludwig Bachmeier, the Flagellant Riots, the Backalley Massacres, the skaven encounter and the witch hunt. This was just the next in the string of misfortunes befalling Salzenmund.

The first disappearance in record occurred one week before the murder of Ludwig Bachmeier, and all subsequent disappearances were confined within the limits of the Slums District. Beggars, gamblers, drunks, the sorts of people nobody would miss. This would explain why the Watch remained ignorant of this incident for as long as it did. He had a list of addresses and a few notes marking the last known location of each victim. He believed he should bring this information back to the headquarters and have all these addresses and locations marked on the map. Perhaps it might shed light on what was happening.

Lanric closed his notebook and clasped it to his belt. A sack of powdered bones and unwanted rolled onto his feet, followed by the pitter-patter of small feet. Lanric picked up the 'ball' and smiled at the guttersnipes. "It's getting late," he said as he shoved the 'ball' into one of their waiting arms. "You wouldn't want to worry your parents!" "Thanks, guv'ner!" yelled the children as they waved him goodbye.

"Really popular with the children, aren't you?" mewled Olaf. "Wished the children would play with me." "Once you get your nerves back, you too can be popular with the children," said Lanric. "No guarantees though. Even after so long, the children are still scared of Giselbert. Let's go. It's getting late."

What Lanric said was neither a hyperbole nor a figure of speech. He could scarcely see the setting sun amidst the thick, billowing clouds. This, along with the increasingly frigid winds, made him expectant of an early winter. The watchmen quickened their pace, not wanting to be caught in a possible blizzard once night fell.

"Do you think this might have anything to do with the heresy the witch hunter's talking about?" said Olaf. "Definitely," Lanric replied. "If my patrols have taught me anything, it is that there are no coincidences. And I believe even Fruehauf will agree." "Lanric, you kept calling her 'Fruehauf', 'Fruehauf'. Do you dislike her?" Olaf asked softly. "Of course I do. She's a witch hunter and witch hunters are trouble. Nothing good ever comes out from them. Besides, she forced you to come to this pit. She should have known your nerves couldn't take it."

Olaf suddenly paused. Lanric, arching his brow, turned to look at him quizzically. Olaf's left eye was twitching as he spoke, "I wished you would stop talking about my nerves."

"And you are wrong about Frau Fruehauf. I wanted this assignment!"

"What?" Lanric gaped. "What are you...what did you do that for?" "Frau Fruehauf said she needed someone with the most combat experience. I am he!" Olaf half-shouted as he jabbed his thumb into his chest. "And one look at me and she decided to send someone else! I told her I could handle the pressure! I practically begged her to give me this assignment!"

"I can't just sit in the headquarters or take the most quiet patrol forever. I am a man, for Sigmar's sake! I can't let my problems control my life!"

"By Sigmar, you are mad!" Lanric exclaimed. "Mad! Why am I always partnered with madmen?"

"You, Emmanuel and I, we are all going to talk once we return to the headquarters!"

"Hey, Olaf! Are you listening?"

Olaf was still, staring. Lanric followed his gaze and peered into the alleyway. He tensed, sweat welling in his helmet, as he beheld movement in the shadows. The watchmen drew their swords and braced themselves for a possible attack.

The two watchmen stared into the darkness. Nothing stared back. With a sigh of relief, Lanric lowered his sword. "Heh, must be a cat," he said aloud. "No way could there be heretics here. This isn't even the loneliest...HEY!"

Lanric stumbled. He spun towards Olaf, about to reprimand his senior when blood sprayed onto his cheeks. A cowled figure slumped onto the ground below him, his abdomen split, his dagger, the thin, serrated, wicked thing, clattered upon the cobblestone.

Olaf shoved him aside and thrust his sword forward, skewering another cultist in the throat. The cultist gurgled, clutching his neck, before crumpling onto the ground.

Olaf pushed Lanric into the alleyway behind him as he swung at another heretic. The heretic leaped back and disappeared into the darkness surrounding them. "Run, Alaric!" Olaf shouted. "Run! I will hold the daemons back!"

"Olaf! What in the blazes are you..." protested Lanric as he was shoved back. "Run already, little brother!" Olaf yelled his reply. "Before the daemons get you!"

Lanric held his tongue. It was no use, Olaf was gone. Again, he was reliving the tragedies from those dark days during the Storm of Chaos.

"Come at me, daemons!" Olaf challenged the cultists as he brandished his sword wildly. The cultists flitted about in the darkness, striking him in his apparent blind spots and retreating before he could mount a counterattack. Lanric could count twenty of these cultists, but the number of pitter-patters within the darkness told him there were more. Defeating all of them was an impossibility.

"Olaf! We must retreat!" Lanric pleaded. "Just go!" Olaf shouted. "I will hold them here! You must escape, Alaric! I am not going to lose you again!"

Lanric clenched his teeth. His words were not reaching him. "Olaf! I will come back with reinforcements!" he shouted. "You better stay alive, you hear?"

The clip-clopping upon the roof-tiles told Lanric that Olaf had fallen. He knew that his doom was now hounding his footsteps. He prayed to Sigmar for deliverance, but he knew his survival was quite unlikely. He unclasped his notebook, scribbled into one of its pages and discarded the stationery into a pile of garbage along the walls. He then toppled the trash, in an attempt to block the heretics' path.

Lanric swung his sword upwards, running his blade across a pouncing cultist's abdomen, splitting him in half. Another cultist landing in front of him and raised his wicked sword high. The watchman swung his lantern at the blade, throwing off its balance, and ran his sword through his torso.

More footsteps approached, from the back, from the sides, from above. Lanric ran, slashing at another heretic who stood in his way. The heretic blocked the blow but was thrown off his feet by the force of the strike. The watchman kept running; slaying the heretic never occurred to him.

The watchman knew this length of alleyways, having taken them so many times during his patrols. He knew the shortest path to the main street separating the Slums from the Market District. The dim lights over the rooftops told him he was in the right track. He took a left, toppling another pile of refuse along the way. He then took a left and he could see the dim lantern-lights ahead.

The watchman panted. His breathing was growing heavy. "Just a little more," he thought. "Just a little more!"

He stopped in his tracks and wailed in despair. Three cultists, armed with wicked swords, axes and knives, had landed before him and were blocking his path. Lanric spun around, having decided on an alternate path, only to find himself flanked. He was trapped!

Like vultures, the cultists gathered around him, on the rooftops, in the alleyways. They laughed cruelly as they closed in onto him. Lanric ground his teeth as he assumed his guard. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar for strength, having resolved to slay as many of the vile snakes as he could.

"Come, heretics," Lanric challenged. The heretics lunged at him, from his left, his right and from above. Lanric swept his blade upwards, cleaving a pouncing cultist in the gut.

Blades clashed, blood was spilled. And yet no one could hear Lanric's valiant stand; the spectacle obscured by the falling snow; the sound of battle drowned by the howling wind.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: The Book Burners**

The Cloaked Brother, Vincent Kraft, nervously watched the streets. There was nothing in sight, save for the snow, the stranded ships and the floes drifting down the river. Yet he knew it never hurt to always be cautious. In his line of work, one can never be too cautious.

Still, he knew such action was unnecessary. The halberdiers had long abandoned the streets to the white wolves of Ulric hours ago, and the vile devotees of the Lord of Murder were unlikely to brave the icy winds, not when they possessed a safer means of travel. The knowledge provided little comfort. There was a reason the state troops, sworn protectors of these lands, abandoned the streets, and that very same reason had buried the beggars and vagabonds in its icy embrace. He prayed he will not suffer the same fate.

A soft, stabbing sound and a brief flash alerted Vincent. He spun to his side and saw the translucent shards and rotten beams embedded in the heaping snow, just a few inches away from him. He shot his head upwards and saw that one of the windows had shattered, the remains of its frame hanging onto the hinges. With a sigh, he released his grip on the hilt of his messer.

Without his knowing it, his eyes were drawn to the green, malevolent orb dominating the night sky. Morrslieb seemed to have noticed his attention, for its leer had apparently sharpened, its hideous grin growing wider. Vincent's skin prickled as he felt the sickish glow caressing his cheeks, despite the mask. He tore his eyes from the hideous thing and slowly backed away into the shadows, feverishly muttering prayers to all the wholesome gods.

"What am I doing?" thought Vincent aloud. "Standing in this damned weather, bathed by the light of Morrslieb, risking mutation and a cold death when I ought to be sitting before a cackling fireplace, enjoying a mug of nice, warm rum?"

Vincent's ears peaked. Something had landed softly and sank into the snow behind him. He spun around, the eerie glow of Morrslieb dancing upon his blade. He stopped before he could fully unsheathe the messer. The person before him was known to him.

"You will be well compensated," said the young lady as she brushed her coat, her voice bereft of any gentleness, quite at odds with her delicate look. The young lady was not dressed in bright colors or excessively buried in furs, like the other young ladies of her upbringing. Her clothes were spartan, utilitarian, even masculine, though they were cut to suit the female figure. That, along with her cold stare and equally cold demeanor, always reminded him of dour womenfolk of frozen Kislev.

The young lady seemed shorter than when they last met, and with a cursory glance, he could see that her knee-high boots had sunk completely into the snow. He looked upwards, towards the roofs and the chimney smoke trailing overhead and decided she had come from the rooftops. "How reckless," he thought, "To brave the fierce wind from so high up."

"I am starting to think that this trouble is not worth fifty crowns," Vincent complained. The lass, expression unreadable as ever, merely answered coolly, "Fifty crowns and not having Templars and fanatics at your doorstep, Brother Kraft."

Vincent furrowed his brow and kept his silence. That was no idle threat; the young lady does have the power to bring the might of the Order of Sigmar down upon their heads. The witch hunters had always frowned upon the vigilante activities of unsanctioned groups, especially theirs, and will gladly put them to the torch. She was well aware of the fact when she drew upon their services.

"She will be the end of me."

"Did you say something?"

"No, I did not."

Vincent Kraft shivered. The young lady was studying him with cold, critical eyes. He straightened his posture and fought an urge to fidget, not wanting to betray his thoughts to her. He admitted it. He was terrified of her. For someone of her stature, she was unusually menacing.

The Cloaked Brother could still remember his first meeting with her. It was a night similar to this one. He was in an abandoned apartment, sipping on his soup while watching the poorly-maintained streets. He could make out a faint figure in the heavy snow making its way up the narrow stairs, but at that moment, he thought nothing of it.

Moments later, there was a soft tapping on the rotten door, which he answered. He would tell the visitor that he was an adventurer, forced to seek shelter in the apartment due to not having enough to pay for the lodging fees. It was the perfect lie. There was nothing about him that would contradict that statement. However, when he opened the door, all thought of lying left him, too awestruck was he by the loveliness of the young lady before him.

And then she spoke, her voice cold and her words colder still.

"Brother Vincent Kraft, I presume?"

That happened two years ago, and yet the memory was still fresh, as though it happened just yesterday. The arrangement was simple: to serve her, assist her in her efforts by means of information and martial might. It was them who observed the murder of the old man, the nightly disappearances, the unusual increase of traffic in the River Salz and it was them who determined the heresy brewing in their midst and it was them who had alerted the witch hunter about it.

And she answered the call, far sooner than they had expected. Brother Kraft was uncertain whether to feel relief or worry.

The young lady, having lost interest in Vincent, waded towards one of the snow piles. She pulled herself onto the buried platform and, with ease and fluidity far removed with her earlier clumsiness, leaped from one heap to another. Vincent could only gawk, green with envy, as she made her way down the alleyway, unimpeded by the gathering snow. He shook his head and waded after her.

Vincent was on the brink of exhaustion when he finally caught up with the lass. He leaned against the wall and panted. Peering through the mist and sweat, he could make out a strange man hunching before the door.

The Cloaked Brother tensed as he straightened his posture, his weariness quickly forgotten in the face of possible danger. He moved a step forward, his hand on his messer.

The man, contrary to his weathered look, was a youth at least two years his junior. With a glance, he could tell, from the poor state of his jacket, hat and gloves, that he was of low birth. Seeing the sword on his hips, he decided this man was a common criminal. He soon questioned his assessment, however. The man was half buried in bandages and dressings. Either this man was very desperate or he was one of them, coming here to serve the purposes of the Bloody Handed One.

The young lady raised her small hand. He looked at her, eyebrow arched, and queried, "He is one of us?" The young lady nodded before bounding towards the strange youth, leaving him with even more questions.

* * *

The hairpin twisted and snapped for perhaps the fifth time that night. Giselbert cried out in frustration and kicked at the door. However, so loud was the wind it drowned his cry and so thick was the snow it dampened his kick. Giselbert stumbled backwards as soon as his sole scrapped the door. He held his head. He was sweating heavily, his head was pounding, his body was burning up, the wound on his left arm was throbbing quite fiercely and he was trying to catch his breath. "Not a good night," he grumbled.

He glimpsed movement beside him and swiftly drew his sword. Giselbert frowned, upon ascertaining the identity of the arrival. Standing before him, dressed in mannish clothes, and completely unaffected by the blade hanging below her chin, was the same lass who pounced upon him a night ago. He lowered his sword and straightened his posture as he growled, "Tannenbaum."

Liselotte Tannenbaum leaped off the buried barrels of refuse; her knee-high boots sunk into the snow as she landed. She curtsied and greeted, "Good night to you."

"Hrm!" Giselbert grunted in reply, "Good night indeed. Do not ever do that again!"

The young lass narrowed her eyes. Giselbert shuddered as he felt her gaze piercing into him. She spoke, deadpanning her admonishment, "I believe I advised seeing to your health the last we met?"

"Aye," Giselbert nodded in confirmation. "An advice, not an order. I see no reason to..."

Giselbert gasped. She had gotten too close, uncomfortably close enough that he could feel the warmth emitting from her svelte form. Close enough that he could hear the soft breathing under the scarf. He could feel the pressure upon his right shoulder and the cold, yet tender touch upon his forehead. His heart hammered as he looked into her eyes. He glanced about, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. He could see she was wearing a dark brown shoulder cape, that she was not carrying her crossbow, that she was standing on tip-toes. He flushed, this time not from his sickness. She was too close. He could smell the sweet, aromatic fragrance of soap mixed with the...foul, burnt and dusty stench of smoke.

As soon as she released him, he coughed, wheezed and gulped hungrily for air. He groped into his jacket, and tore out his hip flask. He hurriedly unscrewed the flask and devoured its contents.

He coughed once more, trying to be rid of the burning sensation in his throat. He straightened his posture and wiped the beads of alcohol from the edge of his lips. He looked upon the young lass, who was fastening the belts of her coarsegloves. She shot him a critical look and stated, "You are very ill."

Giselbert was about to justify his presence when he noticed the approach of a cloaked man. He tensed, his hand on his sword, assuming a guard.

The stranger drew close and bowed low. Giselbert could see the leather jack and the bandolier, lined with an array of knives and assorted other tools, beneath his cloak and cowl. He could see a messer and a crossbow pistol hanging upon his belt and decided that he must be a mercenary, a spy or an assassin. The man extended his hand as he spoke, his voice low and raspy, "Vincent Kraft." Giselbert glanced at his hand, and then at him. He could not make out the face under the cowl and mask, though he could see the grey, searching eyes staring at him intently. He glanced at Tannenbaum and saw that she was completely at ease in his presence. Deciding that the man was no threat, he eased himself, his hand leaving his sword. He wore an uneasy smile as he hesitantly shook his hand, "Giselbert Gottschalk."

"I will leave the briefing to you, Brother Kraft," said Tannenbaum. Before the former watchman could query her about the man who called himself Vincent Kraft, the lass had leaped onto the barrels and had launched at the opposite wall. She kicked at from the wall, propelling herself higher, towards the roof directly over Giselbert. Next he knew, she was gone, having disappeared up the roof.

"No time to be amazed, Herr Gottschalk," said Vincent. Giselbert blinked. He turned to look at the cloaked man, face, still a mask of shock, and found him crouched before the door, working on the lock. "Time grows short, so I will make this quick.

It took Giselbert but a moment to shake off his surprise. "Say no further," said the former watchman, "We are here to retrieve the records." The cloaked man paused in his work and looked at him. Giselbert imagined the man giving him a curious look, though he could not tell from the cowl and mask. The man chuckled lightly, "All dozens or hundreds of thick, hard-cover books? Where did you get that idea from?"

"No, we are here to save the records from those who would expunge them."

"They are here?" Giselbert replied in alarm. "Aye," replied the Cloaked Brother as he continued working on the lock. "I advise that you retreat, however. There is no telling how many heretics are in there. For all we know, there could be a dozen." "I fought worse odds before," Giselbert said as he folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "Not while under the weather, I hope," quipped Vincent.

"However, Fruehauf requests that we do not slaughter all the heretics. Try to capture some of them for interrogation. And should you see the one with the..."

"Aye, the leader. The one with the long blade," Giselbert interrupted.

The cloaked man paused for a moment before continuing, "So you know. Curious."

The lock emitted a click. The Cloaked Brother, seemingly satisfied, stowed his tools into a small bundle, rolled it up and hid it under his cloak. He then retreated away from the door, showing no intention of enterring. Giselbert, noticing the peculiar behaviour, arched his brow and queried, "We are not entering?"

Vincent looked at him and shook his head. "Not yet. The lady has not given her signal." Noticing the scruffy youth's puzzled looks, he added, "Two taps and it is all clear. A bang and we breach."

"Giselbert," said Vincent as he removed his cloak and lowered his cowl, revealing the rugged face beneath. The Cloaked Brother gave him an inquisitive look as he stated, "Correct me if I am wrong, but you are a watchman, are you not?" The former watchman shot him a hard lord, suspicion clearly written on his face, "Former watchman. How did you know?"

"The gangers kept talking about you," said Vincent while chuckling lightly. "I imagined you to be larger." "An informant," said Giselbert, a light of understanding in his eyes. Vincent grinned, "Close enough."

"Color me curious, but how did the young lady come to recruit you?"

"Well...it's a long story," Giselbert sighed. Vincent, glanced at the door and replied, "We have all night, apparently."

Vincent was wearing a curious look by the time Giselbert finished retelling his rather long and sordid tale of heretics and ratmen. "Interesting," he uttered. "So you were the one behind the uproar in the Nordland XI. The tavernmaster was quite amused."

Giselbert narrowed his eyes as he stared at Vincent. "No comments on the ratmen?" he growled. "Oh, no," Vincent chuckled in reply, "I am no stranger to the underfolk." "And yet another who has met skaven," Giselbert muttered, "Am I the only one left out?"

"Still," grinned Vincent while shaking his head. "I do not know whether I should envy you or pity you." Giselbert arched his brow as he gave him a questioning look. The Cloaked Brother, still amused, uttered, "So you haven't realised? Well, you are a smart man. You will find out soon enough, I am certain of it."

Tap! Tap! The sound of tapping interrupted Giselbert before he could further question his colleague. Vincent pulled up his cowl and mask as he uttered, "All clear. Time to work."

* * *

"Oh, for Khaine's sake!" shouted Manfred Schreiber as he threw up his thin, almost skeletal arms. He marched towards one of his cowled colleagues, grabbed him by the shoulder with bony, claw-like fingers and shoved him back. "Stop!" he barked. "Stop!"

"How many times must I tell you, Brother Nagel? The Annual Accountant's Report, be it Circa 2520 or 2530, goes to shelf twenty, not shelf eleven!" The cultist, Brother Nagel, grumbled with resentment as he placed the book in its proper shelf. While he did so, Manfred had turned to another of his compatriots and screeched shrilly, "And Brother Furtilder! For the fiftieth time! The meeting minutes belong in shelf eleven!"

The heretics grumbled as they toiled under his supervision. Manfred Schreiber wiped the sweat on his brow as he surveyed the corridor. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his breath and calm his heart. The Merchant's Guild archives smelled of dust and mold, but it did not bother him. He had grown accustomed to them, having spent so much time in this cavernous chamber.

The heretic furrowed his brow as he gazed to his back, further down the narrow corridor, flanked by the massive, Laurelorn-made bookshelves. The cultists had averted their eyes, but Manfred knew they had shot him venomous glares. He knew that they resented him, resenting this sickly thin man with googly eyes and branch-like limbs lording over them. He knew they wanted nothing more than to spill his blood onto the Altar of Khaine. "Well," he grinned mirthfully, "Let them!" They wouldn't dare to raise a single poisoned blade at him, not if they do not want to draw the ire of their Lords.

The Lords! The glorious leaders of the Cult of Khaine! The leader of the Southern Docks cell, the Executioner and his Inner Circle and Khaine himself! They had appointed him this task, trusted him the book editing and burning operation! He was important, not expendable, vital!

Vital! Manfred's heart swelled with pride and arrogance. He was the lynch pin to the success of this operation! Their Lords knew it! After all, did they not entrust him with this task? Him, the literate few, he who held all the keys to the archives, who possessed the knowledge of its records?

Let them resent him all they wished! They can't act upon it! In here, he was their Lord! He can do as he pleased! All these bloodthirsty murderers, cold-blooded assassins and vicious cutthroats! They will dance to his tune! He had that divine right!

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Manfred told himself. Still, he could not help it. For so long, he was lorded over by the Guild Master and his fellow merchants, men with more money, power and influence than he. For too long he was pushed around. "Go file this! Go write that! Go correct this!" Now, HE was in the position of power, and the feeling was intoxicating!

THOMP! Manfred jumped, his gloating rudely interrupted. He swore as he spun towards the source of the racket. THOMP! The bookshelf to his left shook violently, decades worth of dust falling off its ledges and tomes. "Draw arms!" one of the cultists ordered and his fellow conspirators, all tens of them, drew their weapons. Their blades, wicked serrated daggers, slender swords and exotic-looking axes, gleamed wickedly under the candle-lights. Manfred seethed. How dare they countermanded his orders? How dare they take the initiative! "I will report this to the Lords," he fumed as he drew his dagger.

With one final bang, the bookshelf toppled before them, crushing the book-laden trolley beneath with its sheer weight. The air was choked with dust, the candle-lights either flickering or put out by the sudden gust. Manfred coughed and hacked. He waved his spindly arms, trying to be rid of the dust clouding his vision and suffocating him. He could hear heavy boots stomping into the moldy wood, followed by the sickening sound of split flesh.

With watering eyes, he could make out the entities before him. He could see the silhouette of a tall, lean man, his sword held at the grip and the mid-point of its blade. Its tip was driven into a cloaked and cowled, convulsing and gurgling, creature. Manfred's heart leaped. He fought the urge to turn tail and flee, struggling hard to maintain his composure.

The figure ripped out his sword from the carcass, letting the limp body to crumple onto the ground. It slowly drew close, emerging from the dust cloud. Manfred's cheeks paled, having recognised the man in moth-bitten winter clothes, half buried under dressings and bandages.

"Giselbert?" he stuttered.

Giselbert Gottschalk's dark brown eyes burned as he recognised the tiny man before him. Manfred quaked as he retreated from the advancing former watchman, "But father...father said you were dead!"

"And your father never said you were a traitor," growled Giselbert. He hunched slightly, his strides lengthened, as he advanced upon the heretic clerk, sword held threateningly in his grip.

"Kill...KILL HIM!" yelled Manfred as he turned tail to flee. However, he needn't screamed his order, the heretics were already upon the wounded watchman like furious wraiths. He was knocked back, thrown down by the tide of bloodthirsty killers. He whimpered and cried as steel clashed, battlecries issued and blood spilled. He got on all fours and scurried down the corridor, to be as far away as he could from the chaos. He found his path blocked, his 'Brother' standing in his path, wearing a wicked, malicious grin.

"So, the unworthy and proud has come to ground," laughed Brother Furtilder cruelly, resentment and hatred seeping venomously from his lips. The thin heretic-clerk yelped as the cutthroat pointed his slender, wavy sword, towards his forehead. "Khaine's blessings. He has casted down the unworthy." Manfred screamed in panic as he raised his arms, trying to shield himself, as the blade plunged towards his forehead.

The heretic-clerk could hear steel clattering beside him. Brother Furtilder staggered, gurgling as he groped his neck and caressed the spike embedded in his throat. Manfred cried and kicked his shin, bringing the dying heretic to the ground.

Manfred could see Giselbert behind him, still holding his blade in a half-sword position. He slammed a thrusting blade into the bookshelf and jabbed his sword-tip into his attacker's belly in retaliation. The cultist released his sword and retreated, before drawing his dagger and lunged at the former watchman.

The heretic-clerk could see a cultist emerging from the dust cloud, sailing over the former watchman, venomous fangs poised to strike. He fell short and crumpled limply onto the ground, a knife embedded in his skull. Another cultist fell upon the toppled bookshelf, his blood seeping from the gaping wounds in his sides, chest and throat and into the tomes below.

"Die, Manfred!" the heretic-clerk looked upon a fast approaching cultist in alarm. His would be murderer stumbled, as blood splattered from his back. He fell, revealing his slayer, a black-cloaked and cowled man, his bloodstained messer gleaming wickedly under the flickering candlelight, his expended crossbow pistol hanging upon his belt.

With a shriek, the heretic-clerk clambered onto the bookshelf. He desperately made his way up, trying to be as far away from the furious battle ensuring beneath him. He could hear the sound of steel clashing, bones snapping and crunching, the cries of anger and the groans of anguished. He could feel warm fluids splattering onto his ankle.

Manfred crashed into the dusty floor. He wheezed and panted. He was half-blinded by sweat, His heart was hammering against his ribcage. He grasped the bookshelf and pulled himself up and slowly limped towards the exit.

Once more, he jumped with surprise and panic. The bookshelf behind him has toppled with a bang, throwing up almost impenetrable dust clouds. He quickened his limp, his limp lengthen into a sprint, as he made for the the tunnel yawning before him in a desperate attempt to escape his pursuers.

The heretic-clerk panted and wheezed as he barreled down the tunnel. His limbs were fatigued, about to give out. His heart was pounding, hammering painfully against his ribcage. His dry throat clenched painfully, his breathing shallow and painful. Yet, he refused to stop, so desperate was he to outrun the thundering footsteps behind him.

* * *

The cultist tripped and fell. He screamed in horror as he stumbled into a cavernous chamber and crashed into a pile of skaven bones. His thin body was wracked with pain. His flesh was bruised and cut, his cloak and cowl torn and tattered.

Manfred whined and whimpered as he crawled away. He could see the silhouette of Giselbert Gottschalk fast approaching. He got back onto his feet and attempted to run. He grunted and fell onto his knees. His ankle was swollen and throbbing painfully. His legs had given out.

The heretic-clerk cried as he crashed into a wreckage. His back felt numb, his eyes watered as he beheld a livid Giselbert approaching him. "Have mercy!" he cried as he tried to crawl away on all fours. "Mercy? Mercy for a murderer?" growled the former watchman as he caught the frightened man and slammed him into the wreckage. He raised his fist, ready to plant it into his face.

Giselbert was thrown off him by a strong gust of wind. Green lightning wracked and scorched the chamber floor as a train of greenish light hurtled down the rusty tracks, lightning issuing from the dripping pipes above it. Manfred screamed in terror and scurried under the wreck and cowered. "Why? Of all nights, why tonight?" he wailed.

Green, glowing apparition emerged from the darkness and gloom of the chamber. The spectres, green semi-translucent ratmen, clad in poorly beaten armor and armed with malformed scimitars, swords and halberds, descended upon and tore into each other with a feral frenzy.

Manfred screamed, as he was wrenched out from his cover by his swollen ankle. He whimpered and begged for clemency, and he was answered with a strong blow to his head.

Giselbert panted as threw aside the rusty pipe. He wiped the sweat dripping from his eyelids and brow. He collapsed onto his knees. He clutched his chest, wheezing and gasping and gulping at the stagnant air. He winced as his left arm brushed against the wreckage. He looked to his left and found a growing patch of blood upon the bandages.

Grimacing, he looked around and found himself surrounded by madness. His heart beat erratically, his blood run cold, as he beheld the ghastly phantoms tearing into each other, snapping, clawing, stabbing and slashing. He could see one of the skaven ghosts thrown down and crushed by a maul, before dissipating away, leaving behind the broken form that was its long decayed corpse. He could see one of the wraiths stabbing its kin repeatedly, snarling with every violent motion, not noticing that its victim had long melted away.

Giselbert ducked, shielding his head with his arms, blinded by a burst of eerie green light. The sound of frenzied violence was drowned out by the sound of thunder. He coughed, trying to be rid of the scent of ozone, as he peeked out from behind his cover.

Standing on the opposite side of the track was a spectre, clad entirely in malformed armor. Its snout was concealed in a steel mask. Its right paw was encased in a strange contraption. Its left was holding a long, crudely made rifle. And strapped to its back were two large steel tanks, connected to the contraption and the rest of the armor with pipes. The phantom's large, insect-like eyes caught a skaven halberdier advancing upon it, its crude blade pointed towards it. It raised its rifle slowly, its motion spoke contempt for its attacker. The skaven halberdier snarled, and was swiftly silenced by gunshot and the sound of splattering gore.

More skaven ghosts bounded towards their armored kin. The chamber echoed with its hollow, chittering laughter as it raised its right paw. The contraption whined and trembled as sparks emitted from the pipes. The machine glowed and came to life with a great roar, scorching the attacking skaven wave and obliterating them with a blast of green lightning.

The skaven's wicked laughter was swiftly interrupted as a pair of crude daggers shattered through its lenses. It cried and whined before dissipating into the air, and in its place, a dagger-wielding skaven in rotting leather armor. It leaped back as a wicked blade swept for its throat.

Giselbert tore his eyes from the spectacle and quickly searched for an exit. He picked up his sword and threw the still-breathing, though unconscious form of wretched Manfred onto his back. With a grunt, he made his way towards the tunnel, with an agonizingly slow pace.

The former watchman froze. He glanced around. His heart leaped, as he realised that the phantoms were looking at him with hungry eyes. He quickened his pace, as the ghostly warriors bounded towards him, snapping and snarling at each other in as they competed to reach their prey.

Giselbert swore as he stumbled. He spun around, having drawn his blade, and swung at the skaven ghosts. He cried in horror and despair, as the sword swept harmlessly through their wispy forms. He clenched his eyes, screaming a prayer to Sigmar for salvation, as he braced himself for his doom.

"Just as Ghal Maraz shattered Nagash, so too shall it cast down the undead..."

Giselbert blinked open his eyes, and was surprised that he was still alive. He peered upwards and found Liselotte Tannenbaum standing before him, putting herself between him and eternal damnation. The skaven phantoms snarled and snapped, their scaly tails stiff, their spiny furs bristling. Several times, they made false starts, threatening jabbing at her with their crude blades. And yet, the young lass remained unperturbed. She glared back, her fair face grim, her right arm held out, clutching the medallion of Ghal Maraz between her thumb and index finger, its silver chain dangling down her hands.

"...the formless will be scattered. The deathless will be shattered. The undying will be committed to dust..."

"Can you stand?" asked Vincent as he helped the former watchman back onto his feet. Giselbert looked at his colleague, his eyes wide with fright, and nodded feverishly. "Good, secure the prisoner. We shall leave this place."

The living slowly retreated into the gloom of the tunnel, the light of Ghal Maraz gradually swallowed by the darkness. The phantoms followed and found themselves held back by an invisible obstacle. With their prey out of reach, the skaven spectres tore into each other once more.


	12. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Many thanks for the feedback. I have noted the problems of my story, one of which being the lack of background information, and assembled a glossary for anything of note that will most likely not be elaborated in future chapters. In the weeks to come, I will revisit all the previous chapters and include glossaries in all of them.

However, it is a busy week and it will most likely stay busy for weeks to come, so your patience is much appreciated.

**Chapter 11: Without and Within**

Giselbert could hear them. He could hear the scraping of claws against dirt, the clanging of malformed steel, the chittering of chisel-like fangs. No matter how he deeply he buried his head under the pillow and how much further he cowered under the sheets, no matter how much he prayed for deliverance, the noise would not cease. He dared to open his eyes, and what he saw made his heart froze and his blood run cold. The wound in his left arm throbbed and burnt.

There were eyes, hundreds of them, red as rubies. They were all watching him, appraising him as one would a meal. The glistening fangs emerged. They laughed and chittered, a maddening cacophony, as they drew closer.

"A fine morning to be having nightmares, isn't it, Herr Gottschalk?"

That single, mocking phrase cut through the chittering and swept them away. Giselbert closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered a prayer. He whimpered as he peeled the sheets off his head, and was almost blinded by the sudden light. It took a while before his vision cleared, and standing beside his bed, wearing a most disapproving look, was Tannenbaum herself.

The witch hunter's aide was wearing a simple dark brown vest, fully buttoned, over a high-collared white blouse, with a thin red ribbon wound around her neck. Her fair face was expressionless, but her emerald green eyes bore a mix of disdain and irritation. She thrust to him a glass of water and said coldly, "Good morning to you too."

The former watchman snatched the glass and hungrily devoured its contents. He coughed suddenly, feeling the liquid invading his airway. Wiping the dribble from his mouth, he turned to grumble at the young lady.

"To be mocked first thing in the morning, what has the world come to?"

"You are most deserving of mockery," she replied with a hint of irritability.

The former watchman scowled. He could feel his blood boil and his eyes burn, and he knew, this time, it had nothing to do with his fever. "Is this how you speak to a patient?" he growled. "No, Herr Dummkopf," she replied, her voice harsh, "But for you, I will make an exception."

"You make a lousy nurse, Tannenbaum. All venom and bile."

"You brought this upon yourself. Attracting the attention and malice of twenty odd assassins, cutthroats and career killers and neglecting to watch your flanks. It was most fortunate you did not have a dagger buried in your back."

"Well, it still turned out alright, didn't it? They left their own flanks wide open! If it were not for me, they would be attacking you and Kraft instead and the battle would have lengthened needlessly!"

"I would have endorsed this strategy were it suggested by a man encased in a steel shell and is in the pink of health, Giselbert. Neither described you."

With a harsher tone Tannenbaum continued, "Worse, you just had to go charging blindly into the dark unknown. Had we arrived a minute too late, you would be staring blankly at nothing and giggling to yourself today. Was Manfred Schreiber truly worth the effort?"

"If I hadn't...wait..." a realisation dawned upon Giselbert, "You KNEW!"

"You KNEW Manfred is a traitor and a heretic! Why did you not tell me?"

"And what would you do if I had told you?" Tannenbaum replied mockingly, "Charging ever more eagerly towards certain death?"

"Don't you dare use that tone on me!" Giselbert barked as he leaped out of bed, "You lying little..." He gasped, his anger forgotten, as he fell back onto the furniture. Tannenbaum's fingers were hovering just a few inches away from his forehead. "Despise me if you must, Giselbert Gottschalk, but remember, you owed me your life."

Giselbert grumbled, holding his forehead, seething with impotent rage. His foul mood had exacerbated his fever. His fingers were slick with cold sweat. His head was pounding so fiercely he thought his skull would split. Liselotte Tannenbaum shook her head. She held her forehead and sighed very heavily.

"Do not mistake courage for foolhardiness, Herr Gottschalk. One leads to glory, the other, Morr's Garden."

The former watchman fell silent. His temper evaporated and given in to shame. After several minutes of silence, he felt an all-consuming urge to look towards the clock, the wooden carved object with a white face, propped atop the mantlepiece. The black, ornate arrows pointed that it was three quarters to ten. After a while, he decided to pierce the uncomfortable silence, "What was that I saw in the tunnels?"

"A vision of a battle past," replied Tannenbaum matter-of-factly. "What you saw were their last moments, relived again and again for all eternity, or at least, until they are put to rest."

Giselbert pondered and reminiscent, and replied, "Will these...ghosts...haunt Salzenmund?" "They won't," replied the witch hunter's aide flatly. "I see," the former watchman half-whispered. "That's good then," he sighed in relief.

The former watchman looked at the lass. She had lowered her head, resting her sharp chin between her thumb and her index finger. Her green eyes were looking downwards at nothing in particular, but they were focused and exhibiting a subtle glimmer. Her standing right there, in deep thought, gave her a scholarly air.

His eyes then fell upon her hair, the golden strands, which laid loosely upon her narrow shoulders. They were straight, with little strays, and without split ends. Clearly they were well taken care of. He thought she could have braided it. It would have suited her and her rather strenuous lifestyle. She could wound it around her neck and it wouldn't get in the way. He wondered why she did not bother styling her hair, though perhaps, she simply had no patience for it.

He looked at her slender fingers, and saw that they were rather worn, with chipped fingernails and all. Signs of labor, but for how many years? It was unthinkable that any noble daughter would subject herself to such abuse. What could have driven her into leaving the sheltered life of nobility and into a life of harsh labor? Was she, perhaps, disgraced? Or perhaps a great tragedy befell her family?

The more he thought about it, the more curious he became of the lass's circumstances. The way she conveyed the information about the skaven ghosts and the haunting under the Merchant's Guildhouse suggested that she knew much more than she let on. While he never doubted that she could acquire any knowledge she so pleased, he was quite certain that no publically available books would discuss the skaven nor the specifics of hauntings. Such details could only be acquired from the notoriously tight-lipped witch hunters. Moreover, the way she carried herself when faced with such perilous encounter suggested she was accustomed to such things, if such a thing was possible at all. How much does Fruehauf trust her? How long had she served the Templars of Sigmar? Why? How much had she seen? And how old was she, really? She was obviously older than she looked.

Suddenly, she spoke, interrupting his thoughts, "I should have asked this when we first met." The lass frowned, seeing the former watchman scrambling to regain his composure. The left corner of her lips twitched, her brow furrowed, but otherwise, showed no intention in pressing the matter. She continued, "What you saw this morning is a prelude to what is to come. Should you continue on this endeavour, you will encounter such things and more. Knowing this, will you continue?"

"And you, milady," replied Giselbert with a little cheek, "Why do you still press on?"

The witch hunter's aide sighed, "I see there's no dissuading you." She then looked at the patient, her expression suddenly severe, "A friendly advice, Giselbert. Never pry into my affairs."

"That sounded more like a warning," quipped the patient.

Her lips curled into a cheerless smile, "Perhaps."

Tannenbaum glanced at the clock. Seeing that it was ten, she strode towards the pegs beside the door and retrieved her coat.

"Leaving already?" asked Giselbert. He glanced at the shadows dancing on the floor and asked, sounding concerned, "In this dreadful weather?" Tannenbaum draped the coat over her vest as she answered, "The witch hunter expects a report at half past ten."

She tightened her belt, strapped on her coarsegloves and pointed towards the end table, "Your wage is in the drawer." She then put on her shoulder-cape, wound her scarf around her neck and placed her chapka atop her head. She tapped her cane against the floorboards, "I advise against further exertion, lest you exacerbate your illness." She then turned to look at him and assured, "And fret not. Herr Bismarck will attend to your needs."

"I am in the Nordland XI?" asked Giselbert, sounding surprised. Tannenbaum, opening the door, did not reply.

"Well, whatever," replied the former watchman with a sigh. "Just watch yourself out there. The weather is treacherous."

"You are not in the position to worry about others. See to your health," replied Tannenbaum just before she slammed the door. Giselbert stared dumbfounded at the closed door, as the tap-tap-tapping trailed away. "What, is she still angry with me?" he mouthed.

The former watchman stared at the door, as the tap-tapping faded away. He slumped against the back of the bed, perfectly still. The room was quiet, the only sound being his labored breathing and the persistent tick-tocks. His eyes began to wander and examined his surrounding.

The presence of a model battleship atop the mantlepiece, with the words 'Nordland XI' painted onto its hull, told him he was in the tavernmaster's room. This was no typical tavernmaster's personal quarter, however. There were several maps, one of which was Salzenmund's, with many marks on the wall directly opposite of him. Each of these maps had parchments attached to them, with what looked like names of persons and places listed on them. He looked towards the letter-holder by the door and found an uncommon amount of sealed envelopes within. He then turned his attention towards the desk and saw a large pile of documents, several plain tomes and an inkwell. Far too many paperwork for a typical tavernmaster. So much so that the model battleship, the tankard and the wooden bowl looked remarkably out of place in it.

Giselbert perked up, as he could hear the sound of marching boots and rolling wheels in the snow outside, in spite of the howling wind. Interest piqued, he got out from his bed, intending to investigate. As soon as he took his first step however, he lurched forward and tripped. Acting quickly, he stomped his foot forward and arrested his fall. Cautiously, he straightened himself and proceeded towards the window, only to trip over a wash basin and hit his head against the edge of the table.

The violence of his fall knocked the wooden bowl off its perch, upon which it fell upon the back of the former watchman's head. "Oww," whimpered Giselbert as he got up, rubbing the lump growing on the back of his skull and trying vainly to remove the soup from his hair. He got up once more, and as he took another step, his foot was caught in a pile of dirty bandages and he was on the floor once more.

"By the Gods, what happened in here?" cried Ernst Bismarck at the yawning door.

The tavernmaster's peg-leg tap-tapped hurriedly as he lumbered towards the writhing Giselbert. The tavernmaster crouched down with surprising ease (considering that he was missing a leg) and helped the patient up. "Ran into a bit of bad luck," grunted the former watchman as he was helped back into bed.

"Some bad luck," Ernst remarked as he soaked a towel and propped it upon the patient's head. "Have you forgotten to pay your dues to Ranald?" "I don't know," replied Giselbert darkly. "Maybe I angered His daughter?"

Ernst laughed heartily and slapped the patient at the back of his broad shoulder, "Don't be daft, the young lady be Sigmar's."

"Just don't rub your bad luck onto the garrison mustering out there."

"So that's what I'm hearing out there," said Giselbert, suddenly worried, "Shouldn't we make ourselves scarce?"

"At yer present condition? Don't be silly," said the tavernmaster dismissively. "You go out there and and you die before you go five paces. Right now, the safest place in Salzenmund would be indoors. Worse come to worst, we hide in the basement."

"And then?"

"Keep a loaded blunderbuss and pray," he replied humorlessly.

* * *

The beastmen, mutant parodies of men, shaggy-furred creatures which stood upright on their hindquarters, had gathered by the riverbank. Each and every one was clad in shoddy armor and armed with crude swords, axes or maces. They raised their heads and cried their raucous war cries. They hoisted macabre banners of skin, human or otherwise, bearing the marks of the Blood God Khorne, and adorned with grisly trophies, skulls of men, beasts and nameless things. They bleated and brayed, beating their chests and banging their weapons, in anticipation of slaughter and plunder in honor of their dark patron.

A brass-furred and ram-headed behemoth emerged from the ranks of the mutant raiders. It was a terrible creature, great curled horns protruding from its skull, mouth lined with blood-caked teeth, swollen muscles barely contained within its rusted chainmail, with a round plate upon its belly bearing the mark of Khorne. It looked upon the opposite bank, past the moored merchant ships, and upon seeing the line of blue and grey, grunted with displeasure.

It growled at a smaller goat-headed beastman, a beastigor, making clear its anger. Had it not failed to intercept that human scout, this wouldn't had happened! The beastigor brayed back, challenging the Beastlord. What was it afraid of? There was glorious battle to be had! Battle to be won, blood to be shed, skulls to be taken, all in the glory of Khorne! Surely it was not afraid of a little slaughter?

The Beastlord roared and brandished its cleaver-like greatsword. It dared accuse it of cowardice? It will cut off its head and place it atop the Skull Throne! Come then, challenged the beastigor, unsheathing its waraxe. Let's see who truly deserved the mantle of leadership and the favor of the Blood God!

Their squabble was interrupted by a loud blast and a shockwave. Several ungors, small-horned creatures more men than beast, were knocked off their feet. Broken bodies sailed. Ancient trees around the immediate crater toppled. Whatever not crushed by the impact were shredded by the ejected shrapnel. A dreadful scream wailed in the skies, and another shell cratered where the Beastlord and its insolent lieutenant stood. The beastigor was all but crushed, pulverised into a smear, but the Beastlord lived, protected by its greatshield. The mutant swung its blade and pointed at the opposite bank and roared, and it's brethren roared with it, signalling the start of the incursion.

* * *

The engineer, a middle-aged mustachioed man in a dark blue greatcoat with a strange goggled helm encasing his head, peeked through a strange measuring instrument. Upon catching the advancing horde square in the viewing slit, he shouted, "Reduce elevation! Five degrees!" The cannoneers shouted, "Five degrees!" in reply. Upon finishing their adjustments, they shoved the shells (covered in bitumen cloth) down the barrels. "Fire!" they shouted, and the Great Cannons roared with them.

The cannon shells impacted the frozen river with enviable force, breaking the beastmen and casting them into the air and the icy waters. Those not killed by direct impact fell victim to the ejected shrapnels. Some sought shelter behind a moored ship, only for a shell to pierce its hull and shatter the mutants behind it.

Upon ascertaining that the beastmen had reached the center of the river, the handgunner marksman blew his horn. All along the gunline, more horns blared in reply. The first rank of handgunners took aim and fired, discharging a curtain of smoke and sending forth a deadly swarm of lead.

Scores of beastmen fell, mowed down by massed gunfire. One crumpled, its head exploded like an overripe watermelon. Another was struck in the shoulder. It limped on, before finally succumbing to the wound. Another stumbled, leg snapped and mangled, and was mercilessly trampled underfoot.

The first rank withdrew to reload. The second rank came forth and unleashed a deadly volley.

Seeing that the mutants were rapidly closing in despite the fearsome barrage, the halberdier sergeant shouted, "Halberdiers!" and his men, packed in dense formations, roared in reply. "Hold!"

"Hold!" the halberdiers cried with one voice. They readied their weapons, spear-point aimed for throat. The first of the ungors (whose hindquarters were those of beasts and whose torso were those of men, with nubs instead of horns jutting from their bald scalp) bounded towards the defensive line, axe raised, eyes mad with frenzy, and it was slain, skewered in the throat. Another came, and another, and very quickly, the halberdiers were fully engaged. Despite the press of bodies, the halberdiers held fast, keeping the enemy at the shattering river, at the mercy of the firing line.

* * *

Atop the plaster-white building in the Docks District, known by all and reviled by merchants and ferrymen as the Port Authorities Building, and standing in front of a blazing brazier, an armored man stood in vigil. He was of thirty-something winters, with greying brown hair and beard and deep wrinkles on his forehead. Instead of the helmet favored by the rank-and-file below, he was wearing a broad cap with magnificent plumage, quite like those worn by his zweihander-bearing plated entourage. That, along with his decorated plated armor and his superiorly-crafted armaments, a curved sword with a lion's head at its pommel and a pistol with its barrel crafted in the likeness of a roaring dragon, marked him as a general of the army.

The general looked through his retractable spyglass. His brow furrowed as he briefly pondered upon his observation.

"Kurlass," he called out sternly. "Tell Sergeant Tillermann and Sergeant Regakhoffer to each send a detachment of thirty men to shore up the southern breach! Baldewin! Go tell the Marksman Rudelmann and the engineer to concentrate fire on the south side!"

The messengers saluted with an, "Aye, General Augustus!" and hurried off to execute his orders.

General Augustus returned to his vigil. He caressed his beard as he observed and pondered upon the battlefield below.

"General, you have a visitor," said one of the zweihander-bearing men who shared the roof with him. The general frowned, annoyed, as he turned towards the Greatsword, "If he is another messenger from the Town Council or the Steward here with another petty complaint, tell them to go stuff it up their..."

He paused, stunned, as his eyes fell upon his visitor. His frown broke into a warm smile. He spread his arms as he walked to greet the steel-clad giant, "Vertrauen!"

Brother Vertrauen Gottlieb, smiled warmly as he embraced General Augustus. He lifted the man slightly off the ground as he heartily remarked, "Heironymus! It's good to see you!"

The general laughed heartily, "And to you too!" The two men released their embrace, ignoring the watching Greatswords and slapped each other shoulders, "It's been ten years!" "Aye," agreed the warrior priest. "Ten years, alright. So," Brother Gottlieb studied the decorations upon the general's armor, "General, I see. These ten years has been good to you."

"Not as good as I would have liked," grumbled the general. "The woods are still infested, most of the veterans had gone with Count Gausser to join the mustering in Middenheim, then the riots, the murders," he then gestured at the river, and the marauding mutants below, "and now this! If I hadn't the sense to send scouts into Laurelorn as soon as the blizzard abated a little, well, nobody in town is going to feel cold for very long."

"But enough about me! What had you been up to these ten years, and why didn't you come see me? I heard you were in town for quite a bit...Oh, oh right," Augustus's frown deepened as he tilted himself to look behind his gargantuan friend, "It's that ornery bastard again, isn't it? Well, where is Valdric Fruehauf? I don't see him with you."

Brother Gottlieb snorted and stifled a guffaw. He then answered, with a straight face, "Brother Valdric Fruehauf and his firstborn are in Stirland, last I heard. No shortage of witches there."

"Wait," said General Augustus, index finger on his temper, left hand extended, "Wait, wait, wait. If Valdric and his firstborn are in Stirland, then who is that Fruehauf I hear romping about in Nordland?"

"That would be the youngest daughter."

"The youngest daughter? The youngest daughter?" said the general, stressing every word. "Since when are the Fruehaufs in the business of breaking tradition?"

"It's a long story," shrugged the warrior priest.

"Tell me later then!" declared General Augustus as he turned back to the battleground. "I have a town to defend!" Brother Gottlieb broke into a prideful smile as he stood by the general's side and presided the event with him, "Dutiful as always. I can see why you are made general. What's the situation?"

"You can see for yourself," replied the general with a grunt as he passed over his spyglass. The warrior priest extended the instrument, looked into it and frowned, "Sending the ungor rabble to soak up ammunition, I see the enemy has some measure of cunning."

The general grunted, "Obviously it's no Khazrak One-Eye (1). That strategy is sound were it up against a town or a village and their half-starved militia."

"But not a provincial capital," nodded Gottlieb. "It is still unwise to underestimate our opponents, however."

"True, true," nodded General Augustus. "It will send its finest against us soon enough. Either it will attempt to breach the south side, or, if it were smarter, the north side, where we will have trouble reinforcing."

"So, Vertrauen," he turned towards the warrior priest and grinned, "Hedge your bets. Where do you think it will strike next?" The warrior priest shook his head disapprovingly, "Hieronymus, you know I do not gamble. My order does not permit..."

The pained wailing and death cries of several dozen men interrupted their conversation. With great urgency, General Augustus spun towards the battlegrounds and extended his spyglass. "That bloody idiot! I look away for just a moment and this happens! That fool! I can't believe I made him Sergeant! I told Tillermann to send thirty men, not half his unit!"

The general turned towards one of the Greatswords and barked, "Hauser!"

"Aye, sir?" replied a Greatsword with the red beard, whose leather-like face bore many deep furrows and whose maroon eyes bore the look of one who had seen a great many terrible things. This warrior was encased in a suit of fluted plate armor, polished to shine. A large cap covered his head, and he had a zweihander sheathed on his back.

"I need the you and your Greatswords down there plugging that breach! Clear a path and buy time for the Tillermann's unit to reform!"

"Aye, sir," saluted the Greatsword

"And Vertrauen!" he cried as he turned for the warrior priest, who had already began his descend. "The men need you!" "Worry not, general," said the warrior priest, his warhammer, with the likeness of the Twin-Tailed Comet, hoisted onto his mantle. "Sigmar is with them."

* * *

The ground shuddered as another cannonball struck in the midst of the beastmen horde. A halberdier was thrown down, his polearm sliced cleanly in half. His opponent, a towering beastigor, laughed cruelly, gore and spittle trailing from its mouth.

The halberdier grunted as he frantically tried to draw his short sword. The beastigor closed in, its manic blood-red eyes and hostile posture betraying its intent. Before it could bring down its axe, its back was split with a sickening crunch. It slumped lifeless on the ground, blood flowing freely from the gaping wound, and behind it stood a panting halberdier.

He swung his halberd around, but he was too late to stop a pouncing ungor. The mutant, more man than beast, with nubs instead of horns jutting out of its head, buried its slapped-together cleaver-sword through the slit of his sallet. It then saw the survivor, who had drawn his short sword, and laughed. It bounded towards the halberdier and slashed at him. The halberdier raised his short sword, misdirecting the mutant's blade, and he made a diagonal cut at its throat.

He panted as he looked around. The formation of his unit had crumbled, scattered and broken. The halberdiers were fighting for their dear lives against the savage beastmen. They received no covering fire from the handgunners, for the handgunners were not willing to risk shooting their own men. His sergeant was already lost. He lay against a broken stall, his chainmail shattered, his breastplate split, with his innards spilling out, a discharged pistol lying limply in his lifeless hand. The halberdier then turned towards his unit's battle standard, and his heart was lifted, seeing that the blue and yellow banner, with the emblem of a blue anchor, flapping defiantly against snow and wind.

His elation left him as soon as he he heard the heavy hooves sinking into the bloodstained snow behind him. He spun around, left hand wielding his short sword, right clutching a half-a-halberd. A beastigor, riddled with multiple cuts and stab wounds and missing a horn and an eye, roared wrathfully. The weary halberdier readied both his weapons and took on a defensive stance, fully intent in selling his life dearly. The beastigor, enraged by his insolence, charged, its greataxe cutting through the snow.

A twin-tailed comet streak before the halberdier without warning, striking the beastigor in the eye. The beastigor stumbled, clutching its face, shocked and half-blinded by the burning pain. The halberdier wasted no time. He lunged at the beastigor and struck his short sword through its chainmail's weakened links. The beastigor cried and doubled over and the halberdier split its skull with his half-a-halberd.

The beastigor fell limp at his feet. The halberdier fell upon his knee, weary and shuddering from the adrenaline rush. He turned to his saviour, and was awed by the statuesque figure of the warrior priest. "Sigmar be praised."

"On your feet!" said Brother Gottlieb sternly as he offered his hand. "Yes...yes, Father!" stammered the awed halberdier as he gripped the warrior priest's firm hand and pulled himself. The warrior priest smiled, stony but assuring, "Call me Brother Gottlieb. In this battle, we are all Brothers."

"Brother Gottlieb!" cried the halberdier urgently. "Centigor!" The warrior priest swung around, growling, about to strike the four legged creature, whose torso was that of a man, whose bottoms were those of a horse's that ended in wolf-like paws. The centigor brayed, spear aimed for the warrior priest's head. It suddenly cried as it stumbled and barreled towards the warrior priest. Wasting no time, the warrior priest struck, shattering its face with his mighty warhammer.

The warrior priest saw that the mutant was cleft cleanly through the leg and through its belly. He turned towards his assistant, the Greatsword Hauser, who was swiping the blood off the surface of his zweihander wordlessly. Brother Gottlieb smiled and called out to him, "Good show, Brother Hauser."

"We can dole out the high praises later, Brother Gottlieb," said the Greatsword humorlessly. "We have a battle to win."

"Admirable spirit, Brother Greatsword," said the warrior priest as he swung his warhammer around, pulverising a charging ungor. "If we have more men like you, we can drive these drivel back to the Northern Wastes within a year!"

"I heard that one before," replied Hauser flatly as he swung his zweihander around, parrying an axe-blow from a gor. The Greatsword and the mutant locked blades briefly, and the Greatsword shifted his weapon's angle, causing the axe to slide off and the mutant to lose its footing. He then struck the mutant's temple with his zweihander's pommel, before beheading it with a single stroke. "If you intend to beseech Sigmar for assistance, you best hurry. The mutants are not content to wait."

"Have faith, Brother Hauser!" replied Brother Gottlieb as he slammed his warhammer into another beastigor. "Sigmar is always with us!" He spun around, one hand gripping the bottom of his weapon's haft, and broke three ungors at once. He started chanting in Khazalid as he broke another beastman's shield and struck it in its belly. He then raised his warhammer high over its head, and as soon as he brought his warhammer down, a pillar of light erupted from his massive form.

"Brothers! To me!"

* * *

The ceiling shuddered to the distant thunder. A delicate icicle snapped from its root and shattered upon the cobblestone below. A heavy boot stomped, right where it fell, cracking the ice coating the grey stones and the gaps between them. Emmanuel Marx adjusted the collar of his dark blue greatcoat and exhaled, a thin mist forming before his mouth. The chamber shook again, the shock of the cannons' roar washing over him and echoing through the chamber. Emmanuel glanced back nervously, and seeing that he was not being followed, he slowly closed the door.

The Holding Cells were darker than usual. Were it not for the little sunlight trickling into the chamber, he would be completely engulfed in pitch blackness. He sniffed at the air and gagged at the dank mouldy stench, mixed with that of body odor, refuse and excrement. Guided by the trickling light, he made his way to the brazier and struck his tinderbox. The brazier did not light. Already anticipating the problem, he poured out its content, dumped in some fresh coal he had carried with him and struck his tinderbox again. The flames roared to life.

The creeping darkness retreated as the flickering light swept into the chamber. Emmanuel sighed in relief and rubbed his red nose, feeling its comforting warmth embrace him. His expression turned grim as he tore his eyes away from the dancing fire and towards the cell. Huddling in the corner were men and women, all four of them, naked save for their small clothes, chained and bound. The prisoners watched him with hateful eyes, and he glared back, loathing welling in his heart. These were the spillers of blood and gougers of hearts, vile devotees of a cruel, malicious deity, whom he and a few other watchmen risked their lives to retrieve a night ago. All of them bore wounds of one kind of another. The woman with the pitch black eyes and hair had a knife wound gouged into her thigh. The thin, bald man, slumped against the wall, had a thick cut in his back, which had severed his spine and, he presumed, his nerves. None of them yet bear the marks of a witch hunter's interrogation.

Emmanuel ignored their threats, their curses and their taunts. He was not here for them, nor was he here on the witch hunter's behalf. He strode towards another side of the cell, where a scrawny man with wispy hair lay. Feeling his shadow upon him, he stirred and looked at him with goggly, shame-filled eyes. The senior watchman looked upon him and his wounds. He could see a bruise on his ankle and neck and a hideous, weeping wound on his skull. No doubt, he was savaged by one of the witch hunter's faceless men. His heart was heavy with pity and guilt, for it was through his deeds that he suffered such a fate.

It was a cold yesterday, though not as cold as this one, when he visited the Salzenmund Merchant's Guild, to peruse its records. An hour and a half was spent, and yet, despite the witch hunter's writ, they were denied the archives by Manfred Schreiber himself, citing the lack of the guild master's approval. No amount of persuasion would change his mind. With a fearful heart he reported his failure to the witch hunter, and to his surprise he was not blamed. Instead, she asked of him a detailed description of Manfred's appearance, particularly the marks on his skin and the coverage of his attire. He did not know which of his statements had condemned the archivist-clerk, but he suspected that it might be the one regarding the glove on his left hand.

"Why, Manfred?" asked Emmanuel. "Why betray your father's faith?"

The heretic-clerk did not answer.

Emmanuel was shocked by his lack of regret, as he turned away to wallow in his own filth. A low chuckle emitted from the other side of the cell, and with a frown, Emmanuel turned to meet it. "He was desperate," accused the crippled cultist, his words dripping with hate. "Desperate to escape his fate, that of being trampled by his superiors. He hated it, you know. Hated being pushed around by his betters. It was so easy to get him to join our cause. We offered him a place in our esteemed Brotherhood, we gave him charge over a few Brothers and he threw his lot with us without a second thought. The ignorant fool. Our betrayal must had shaken him."

The cultist laughed again as Manfred glared angrily at him. "Oh, don't give me that look, you blind idiot. You were never important to us. Frail weakling. No stomach for bloodshed. You are everything Khaine loathed. Pathetic whelp. You were used!"

"The Lords themselves ordered your throat slit, once your usefulness ends."

Manfred cowered, squirmed and whimpered as the heretic laughed his cruel laughter.

Frowning, Emmanuel asked, his question directed at the cripple, "And you, for what reason did you betray the Empire?"

The apostate laughed and hacked. He coughed twice and he answered, "I betray the Empire because it is weak!"

"Weak? You dare call the Empire weak? The same Empire which turned back the Chaos horde weak?" growled Emmanuel.

"I dare!" snapped the heretic, so fiercely and hatefully it shook Emmanuel's steely heart. "Were it not for Valten (2), Middenheim would have fallen and the Great Enemy would have devoured us all! And now, Valten is gone! Sigmar reborn, gone! He had abandoned us! He had seen the Empire for what it is; a bloated rotting corpse, and He had abandoned us! What hope do we have against the coming storm without Him to lead us?"

"But Khaine, He has yet to abandon us, for he still sees hope in the Empire. He sees that the Empire can be strong again. And with His guidance, it will once again be strong, strong enough to match, no, crush Archaon's Daemon Host!"

"If you seek to best the Great Enemy, why target the innocent?"

"Because they are weak! They are all weak! Fit only as slaves and sacrifice for our Lord! The Empire is dead because of the weaklings feasting upon its flesh! They must be cast down, sacrificed in the name of Khaine. And from their blood, the Empire will be reborn! A strong Empire! Khaine's Empire!"

"You are mad!" Emmanuel retorted. "Irredeemably mad!" "It's because you do not understand," replied the heretic with a hollow laughter. "Or perhaps you do not accept, weakling. I know you, Emmanuel Marx. I heard from Manfred, how you did not answer the Emperor's call to arms. How your children fought in your stead."

"Weak old man. How does it feel, to lose your offspring to your own cowardice?"

"You will be silent!" bellowed Emmanuel, his face flushed and his fists trembling. "Or I will have you silenced!" The cultist merely laughed in reply. Emmanuel panted as he held his chest, leaning against the wall, grinding his teeth and sweating profusely. The heretic continued to laugh, "How delightful. The sheep thinks himself a griffon." The senior watchman glared at the heretic. He inhaled and exhaled deeply and straightened his posture. He cursed angrily, "May you choke on your own venom, faithless cur!"

Emmanuel snuffed the brazier as the heretic laughed. The heretic continued to laugh as the watchman closed the door behind him, heedless of the creeping chill.

* * *

Upon emerging from the stairs, Emmanuel was greeted by a sight he wasn't quite expecting. Standing in the main chamber of the headquarters, flanked by two broad, beefy men clad in steel and wool, and himself dressed in a very thick, brightly colored robes and cloak, with a large muffin hat covering his head, was none other than the Merchant's Guildmaster and Town Councillor Ulrich Graben himself.

The forty-something year old man's thin moustache was twitching as he glared at the Lieutenant, the young man with a pretty face, Hansel Aushwitz. "Look, I understand the severity of the matter," said Hansel softly, his brilliant smile eclipsing the redness of the face, the anxiety in his eyes and the sweat drenching his brow. "But we can't attend to your needs. It's snowing quite heavily out there and there's a battle raging..."

"I AM NOT PAYING YOU TO HIDE UNDER YOUR MOTHER'S KNICKERS JUST BECAUSE A BUNCH OF MUTANTS ARE SKULKING ABOUT!" shouted the very livid Ulrich. "I AM PAYING YOU LOT TO KEEP OUR HOLDINGS SAFE! SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GET TO IT ALREADY!"

"But milord, the streets are choked with snow and..."

"I MADE IT HERE ALRIGHT, DIDN'T I?"

Emmanuel made his way towards Johannes Eisenhower, who was watching the spectacle while sipping on his ale, looking somewhat amused. "Ah," greeted Johannes. "I see you are already done with the Manfred. Got a confession?" The senior watchman twitched as soon as he heard the name. His fists were clenched, shaking and red. He adjusted his collar and breathed deeply. He exhaled, "Just mad ramblings from his fellow heretics."

"Leave the confession to the witch hunter, eh?"

"Aye. And Ulrich there...how long is he here? I wasn't expecting him until after the battle in the Docks District," asked Emmanuel, pointing at the shouting Ulrich and the grovelling Hansel. "Ulrich arrived just half an hour ago," replied Johannes. "You must be sorry to have missed it. He slammed the door..." he pointed towards the limp body by the door, "...and knocked out Konrad over there."

"And he then shouted at Julius, demanding to see the Captain," he continued, while pointing at the clerk, who was sobbing under the table. "Poor man. Having nothing but bad luck lately."

"So the Lieutenant stepped up and tried to contain his temper," nodded Emmanuel. "Have to admit, the Lieutenant is braver than I thought. Takes steel to keep smiling like that." "He only has to keep Ulrich occupied until the witch hunter arrives."

Just as soon as Johannes completed his sentence, a drafty wind and grains of snow blew into the chamber. Ulrich swiftly quietened and turned to the door, and his flushed face quickly turned pale. Standing at the portal was none other than the witch hunter, Frau Fruehauf herself. She strode through the portal, heaps of snow slipping from the brim of her hat, as the door slammed shut behind her. "Ah, Sister Fruehauf," stammered Ulrich Graben. "I didn't know you..." The guildmaster gasped, as the witch hunter stopped directly before the guildmaster and looked at him in the eye. The chamber quickly fell uncomfortably silent.

Ulrich was fidgeting quite visibly, what with the witch hunter staring at him, as though relishing in his discomfort. What she felt about him, nobody knew, for none could pierce the veil casted by her black scarf and her hat. After a while, she spoke, her chilly voice sending the present watchmen reeling, "What seems to be the problem?"

"THE PROBLEM?" Ulrich barked, having recovered his nerves and flushing red once again. "THE PROBLEM? IDLENESS IS THE PROBLEM! THERE IS A BREAK IN IN THE GUILDHOUSE AND NONE OF THESE LAZY DOGS ARE DOING ANYTHING ABOUT IT!"

"Ah, the break-in," replied the witch hunter, unshaken by his sudden fury. "I assume you speak of the archives."

"WHAT?" barked the guildmaster. "YOU...DID YOU..." "We will discuss the matter in private," interjected the witch hunter. "This way, please."

* * *

The snow storm had mostly abated when Ulrich Graben emerged from the depths of the Holding Cells. He was visibly shaken. His eyes were wide, his pupils shrunken. His early indignation had long evaporated, and his pale sunken cheeks had sunken more. He was fidgeting, his body slightly bent, as though the weight of his robes and cloak had taken its toll upon him. He shivered as he looked to his back, towards the witch hunter flanking him, a menacing figure despite her small frame and slight build. He removed his hat, baring his sweaty, bare scalp, as he uttered nervously, almost pleadingly, "I...I don't know what to say."

"Are we in agreement?" asked the witch hunter severely. The guildmaster and Town Councillor bowed his head, looking at his feet. He looked pleadingly at his bodyguards, who flanked her from both sides. Men much larger and probably three or four times heavier than her, his statuesque guardians. The men stared back coldly. He could see the accusing eyes behind the sallets. He looked around him and noticed that all the watchmen present had the same eyes.

"I...Yes..." he stuttered as he adjusted the collar of his cloak. "Yes...the paperwork will be ready by afternoon. I...all the resources I can spare..."

"I can spare?" repeated the witch hunter, threat lurking beneath her cool exterior. Ulrich Graben whimpered and cowered, seemingly shrinking before the witch hunter. "My mistake, milady. I will spare everything in my possession to see this heresy ends."

"Will all the necessary paperwork be ready by two?"

"Yes...yes!"

When the last of the Town Councillor's bodyguards left the premise, the witch hunter turned her menace towards the rest of the present watchmen, much to their alarm. They yelped and whimpered as they withered under her gaze. However, unlike what they had expected, she deflated a bit, the menacing air around her dissipating, at least a little.

Emmanuel could feel the air around him grow colder while he sipped upon his ale. He placed the tankard down and turned to greet the witch hunter. "I was told you visited the prisoners during my absence," she said, without a surprising absence of an accusatory tone. "Aye..." Emmanuel stammered, glancing at Johannes almost pleadingly. Johannes merely shrugged and returned to his drink. "Aye...milady. I did."

"Johannes?"

"He claimed only to hear mad ramblings from the heretics, milady."

The witch hunter nodded at the younger watchman and turned her attention back to Emmanuel, "Elaborate."

The witch hunter was still, completely impossible to read, even after the senior watchman finished his recitation. "If I may, I think there are no substance to his words," said Emmanuel, a little boldly by the witch hunter's reckoning, his terror apparently faded as he elaborated on the cultist's madness. The witch hunter said nothing, busying herself with her notebook instead. "There is something else you wish to say, Emmanuel Marx. Regarding Manfred Schreiber, I presume?"

The senior watchman stood stunned. He glanced at Julius Schreiber, who, despite his weariness, was looking at him intently with a pleading look. He looked towards the witch hunter and pleaded on his behalf, "Manfred Schreiber...he, he did not believe in the cult's creed. A foolish youth who went over his head. He was desperate to flee his poor working conditions, and..."

"My decision is final."

Fruehauf's harsh and forceful declaration hit Emmanuel with the force of a warhammer. Upon recovery, he glanced back at Julius. The poor old man's back was turned to him, his bony shoulders shaking. He need not look at his face to know that the clerk was crying. He opened his mouth, about to assert his plea, and with one look into her cold, green eyes, he closed his mouth.

It was no use. Her mind was made, her words broker no argument. Manfred Schreiber will suffer a heretic's fate.

The witch hunter produced a silver pocket watch, with the image of the Imperial Cross stamped into its cover. She flipped it open and read the time. She then looked at Emmanuel and asked, "Had Olaf and Lanric reported in?" Emmanuel sighed and shook his head, "No, milady, they have not." Fruehauf looked out of the window. It was still snowing rather heavily, though the blizzard had already abated. "I will grant them two hours. If they do not return, we will look for them."

"I will ready myself then," Emmanuel uttered. He glanced at Johannes and nudged him in the ribs. The youth looked at the witch hunter and nodded. The witch hunter did not respond.

As the young witch hunter walked away, she suddenly stopped and spun towards the senior watchman once more. "And before I forget," she said as she fished out a pouch from under her cloak. She put the pouch in the watchman's hand and then she turned towards the lieutenant.

Hansel was seated, wheezing wearily. Upon catching the approach of the witch hunter, he quickly stood up and corrected his posture. Emmanuel watched them speaking to each other and wondered about the contents of their conversation. Whatever they were speaking of, it must be pleasing to the lieutenant, as he was wearing a rather faint blush, barely able to contain his smile. Emmanuel shrugged as he unfastened the pouch in his hands. He could see silver coins within and with a brief mental counting, he realised it amounted to the bribes and other expenses he put down into his report.

* * *

The tavernmaster of the Drunk Boar yelped, his large feet leaving the ground, as the building quaked to the sound of cannon fire. He turned his eyes towards the door, half expecting some foul, bloodthirsty beast to break into his tavern. Seeing no such thing, Jurgen breathed a sigh of relief and resumed scrubbing the encrusted tankard in his large hands.

Jurgen froze and turned towards his only patrons, the two men seated by the fireplace. The two men, one a swarthy dark skinned man of Tilean stock, dressed in silk, and the other a fair-haired and fair-skinned, light-eyed and heavily built Norscan, chuckled amongst themselves as they shared drinks and tales amongst each other, while enjoying the warmth offered by the cackling flames. The balding tavernmaster could not hear their conversations, and he didn't need to. He knew they were laughing at him.

Jurgen felt his temper rising and hurriedly smothered it. "No," he told himself. "Do not do it, or else you will be in trouble."

His self-counsel was abruptly interrupted. He spun towards the door, wearing his best smile, to greet the newcomer. His smile quickly faded, greedy thoughts gone, replaced by dread and terror. Standing at the portal with heaps of snow upon her hat's brim and her narrow shoulder, was a creature as fearsome as the Dark Gods themselves. A witch hunter.

The door closed behind the witch hunter as the she walked towards the bar-counter. She was flanked by two men, garbed in a dark blue greatcoat with yellow trimmings, with a helmet bearing blue and yellow plumes and swords at their hips. Uniform of the Salzenmund Watch. Jurgen's breathing grew difficult. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back, his face flushing, his heart pounding in his chest. His limbs quaked and trembled as the creaking grew closer.

In his desperation to ignore the approaching terror, the tavernmaster scrubbed his tankard vigorously enough to tear the dirty rag. The number of salty beads dripping from his cheeks increased as the creaking grew closer. He could only hear two pairs of heavy boots; the witch hunter's footsteps were missing. He glanced towards the door, hoping against hope that the witch hunter was just a figment of his imagination. She was very real, much to his dismay.

He glanced at the two patrons, the Tilean and the Norscan, with a pleading look. The two patrons continued their conversation, though from their body language, he could tell they were aware of the witch hunter's presence. Jurgen felt his skin tingle and he shivered, despite the stoked fireplace. He choked, as though the air had somehow thickened. A bead of sweat dripped from his near-absent chin as his eyes peered to his side.

He could feel the blood freezing in his veins. Despite her wide brimmed hat and black scarf concealing its features, he could feel her eyes upon him, reading his every action. He tried to put on a brave face as he looked at the witch hunter. Realising his hands had stopped, he quickly, frantically scrubbed his tankard, in a forced attempt to act natural. He forced a big, toothy smile as he greeted the witch hunter, "Cold afternoon, ain't it, witch hunter? How about a drink?"

The witch hunter did not answer, just silently staring at him. She was a small creature. Slight in build, diminutive. Just barely reaching the shoulder of the bearded watchman in height. Yet, despite her stature, he trembled in fear. "Oh, get over yourself," he told himself. "Surely she can't be that...gasp!"

Frau Fruehauf spoke, her voice colder than Ulric's breath, her words piercing his every being, worming its way into ears and into his soul, "Jurgen Hoegaarden." "How did you know..." asked the tavernmaster with bated breath, upon hearing the witch hunter pronouncing his full name. "Irrelevant," said the witch hunter, brushing his question aside. "I have questions."

"Lanric Schwart and Olaf Bauer. Watchmen. One five feet and ten inches, with a scar on his cheeks. The other six feet. Wild hair. Unstable. I was told they had visited this establishment yesterday. Perhaps you know of their current whereabouts?"

"Milady," said Jurgen, the edge of his lips twitching, "I have not seen any watchmen, save those two you brought with you." "Notch in your stool," said the witch hunter suddenly, "Inflicted by sword. Dried blood on floor. Three men in the Temple of Shallya, wounded, their lives hanging on threads, crying for vengeance against a wild haired watchman, claimed to be last seen rampaging in your establishment."

"Alright!" exclaimed Jurgen, throwing his arms in the air. "Alright! You are right! The watchmen were here! They say they were going to the Velvet Rose!"

"Velvet Rose, the abandoned brothel overlooking the River Salz?" asked the witch hunter, doubt slithering in her words. "Who gave them the lead?" "Who...who gave them..." stammered Jurgen. "I do not know, milady! I swear! They were just talking amongst themselves and then suddenly decided to head over there!"

"You are lying," accused the witch hunter, her cold words growing colder.

"I...I..." Jurgen backed away, his back pressing into the kegs. The witch hunter seemed to have grown larger, more menacing, her shadow apparently looming over him, threatening to devour him whole and squeeze his dying screams and last statements from his lungs. She had him cornered. She knew he was lying, and there was no convincing her otherwise. He glanced at the two patrons at the fireplace and, in his desperation, screamed, "HELP!"

He needn't had spoken, for the Tilean and the Norscan were already upon the witch hunter, their serrated daggers drawn. Jurgen ducked under the counter, his last sight that of the witch hunter whipping her thin arm, a dual-barreled flintlock pistol already in hand and full-cocked.

The tavernmaster whimpered and cowered as the bar-counter shook to the discharge of the pistol. He could hear an anguished cry, the shattering of bone, the severing of flesh and the spilling of blood. The sound of steel against steel rang in his ears. He shuddered and yelped as wood and glass shattered and rained all around him. He whimpered and squealed as screams, cries and curses were wrung out of dying lungs. The building shook to the cannon-fire. He wept as the commotion died down, as golden nectar flowed from the smashed kegs and down the bar counter.

Jurgen waited under his bar counter. Waited and waited. He could hear nothing, nothing save for the dying moans and the flowing, frothing ale. No footsteps. No more cries. Nothing. Slowly, frightfully, he rose from his hiding place, looking around with wide eyes. He gasped. He could see the green in the witch hunter's eyes.

With a squealed, he scurried on all fours. He got up to his feet, only to run head first into the broad chest of the watchman with the majestic mane. He cried as his feet left the floor. Pain wracked his back as he slid down and laid slumped against the wall.

"Please, mercy!" Jurgen pleaded. The witch hunter said nothing; she simply walked towards him wordlessly, dripping blade in her right, smoking pistol in her left. As she drew closer, he trembled and squirmed more vigorously, gibberish leaving his mouth.

"Lying to a servant of Sigmar and the Empire," said Fruehauf, who was but four feet away, slowly and softly, "The rack and the removal of tongues."

Jurgen cried and squirmed and snivelled as the witch hunter listed the charges laid down against him and the punishment which awaited him, calmly and nonchalantly, as though she was simply reading off a list. Frightened tears wet his cheeks as he squirmed and trembled upon every accusation.

"Conspiracy," she continued as she took another step. "The breaking wheel."

"Sympathising with the heretic. Excommunication and exile."

She stopped, directly before the whimpering tavernmaster. She lifted her rapier, its silvery blade pointing downwards. Jurgen yelped and cried, as she plunged the dripping blade into the floorboards below, right between Jurgen's fat thighs and directly below his groin. The witch hunter knelt before him, looking at him in the eye. Jurgen whimpered as he looked her in the eye. The witch hunter spoke, her voice colder than Ulric's breath, "How do you plead?"

* * *

A sudden banging on the door shook the two cultists, flanking the portal, from their lethargy. "Key phrase!" one of the cultists growled. "It's...it's me, Jurgen!" answered the visitor, with a high pitched, obviously panicked voice. "The witch hunter...she and her entourage has fallen!" The cultist relaxed upon hearing the news. However, they would not open the door. The aforementioned cultist asked again, "Key phrase, Jurgen." "We have wounded and dying! So...so much blood! Kraemer, he is dying! You must come!"

"The key phrase!" demanded the cultist again. "Please, you must come help!" Jurgen pleaded. The cultist grumbled and half-shouted, making his irritation clear, eliciting panicked yelping from the tavernmaster, "I do not care if the Executioner himself demands access to the cellar, I am not opening this door until you say the key phrase!"

"Murder...murder is its own reward," Jurgen replied meekly. "Please, hurry!" The cultist grumbled again as he sheathed his blade. "Be right there," he irritably answered as he unbolted the cellar door and swung it open.

The cultist violently snapped back. Tendons flayed as bones shattered to the sound of thunder. Beads of blood showered from his shoulder-wound. The cultist beside him stared wide-eyed, stunned by the gory display. When he realised what was happening, his hand went for his weapon. He felt leather against the back of his palm, his hand could not be removed from the pommel. He looked down and saw the tarnished Twin-Tailed Comet, and he felt a cold thin blade sliding between his ribs.

The heretic gasped for air as he writhed on the stairs. A boot fell upon his cheeks and he gurgled before falling silent. The witch hunter Fruehauf withdrew her weapons, the pistol sheathed upon her hips, her poniard upon her thigh. She tugged at her cloak, letting it veil her petite figure, concealing her longcoat, bandolier and the breastplate underneath. She turned to her back, her right hand held out. Emmanuel Marx nodded as he slid the lantern into her grasp.

The witch hunter cautiously strode down the rickety stairs, avoiding any broken steps. The steps creaked, yet her footsteps were silent. There was a soft sound of splashing at the foot of the stairs. Fruehauf lowered the lantern, and she found the stone floor flooded crimson.

The cellar was dimly lit, despite the hundreds or so candles. All the kegs were missing, removed when the blasphemers made this place their nest. Most prominent, however, was the opposite wall, a brick partition partially taken apart, the picks lying against it.

The hole in the wall was only wide enough for one person to squeeze through at any one time, and pass through the witch hunter did. The dripping gloom and the seeping taint told her she was in the sewers, and at the opposite end, another opening beckoned. She turned to her escorts, the watchmen Emmanuel and Johannes, and spoke, her voice phlegmatic like Jurgen's, though her original coldness was seeping, "It would be wise to turn back now." "What lies beyond?" asked Emmanuel. "Lanric and Olaf, most likely," answered the witch hunter, "Undoubtedly in dreadful conditions."

"If Lanric and Olaf is in there, then we must follow," Emmanuel said, with a hard, unwavering tone. The witch hunter bowed her head slightly, and she said, as though she were sighing in resignation, "So be it."

And as the witch hunter spoke truth. Within the next chamber, its walls of earth and gravel, laid a most blasphemous display. Prominently placed in the middle was a large altar of black stone. The altar had a canal hollowed into it, which led to the blood-filled chalice below. And lying upon the altar was Lanric Schwart.

Johannes vomited, Emmanuel's face turned pallid. Fruehauf was unaffected. She strode towards the altar and placed the lantern upon it. Lanric's wide eyes suggested terror and great pain. His thin form was riddled with scars that never scabbed over. And on his chest there was a gaping hole, his ribs was protruding outwards. The witch hunter looked into the gap and found a void where his heart should be.

The witch hunter and her retinue was alerted to the sound of flesh against wood, and following that noise, they found Olaf, chained to the wall, amongst the long, bloodstained crates. His eyes were wide, foam was dripping from his mouth. He shook and struggled violently, his chains biting deep into his wrist, and yet, he uttered no sound. He was mutilated, extensive signs of charring on his right leg, which was nothing but skin and bones. And lying against that leg was a bucket, filled with bloody meat, with a black scalpel-like blade lodged into the largest of them.

"What lies within these crates?" asked Emmanuel, slowly and with wavering tone. The witch hunter did not answer. She suddenly turned around and marched towards the exit. "Wait, where are you going?" Emmanuel asked as he hurried after her. The witch hunter looked at him, and Emmanuel froze. There were flickering embers in her eyes. It was then he knew where she was headed.

"You can't be thinking of going to the Velvet Rose!" he exclaimed. "You knew it to be a trap!"

The witch hunter did not answer. She simply started marching out. "Let us come with you," offered Emmanuel, who hurried after her. "No, Emmanuel," said the witch hunter, without her usual monotone or coldness. "You will secure this premise until reinforcement arrives. Have them take the prisoners to the Holding Cells. Gather anything that may be of use, remove them to the headquarters, in the Captain's Office. If it are too heavy to move, describe the object with as much detail as humanly possible, include a sketch if able. Once your task is complete, purge everything that remains."

"And Johannes!" Johannes wobbly corrected his posture and answered her summons, though his face was pale and covered in cold sweat. "Return to the headquarters and acquire assistance. Seek out Doktor Koch and a Priest of Morr and bring them here. Take a leave for the rest of the day."

The witch hunter exited the cellar and matched for the door, pass the unconscious Jurgen and the bound and still-breathing heretics, with Emmanuel at her heel, providing suggestions after suggestions. The door slammed in his face, very nearly hitting him in the nose. The senior watchman swung the door open and found that she was already gone, the two small footprints recently imprinted in the snow being the only sign of her passing.

* * *

A halberdier cried as his broken body was casted aside like litter. His greatcoat was bloodied, his breastplate and chainmail splitted, exposing his bones and innards. Seeing the death of his comrade, another halberdier let out a hateful cry. He thrust his weapon forward and charge, but before he could drive the spear-point through the Beastlord's sinewy muscles, he collapsed onto the snow-laden ground, his head detached from his neck.

The mutant monster, a gargantuan brass-furred creature clad in tarnished chainmail, towered over all the men around it. It raised its head and roared, its rage emanating from its lungs. It swung its greatshield, swatting away two men as easily as they were gnats. It swept its blade and splitted a Greatsword as easily as it did a log.

"Don't let up!" shouted a halberdier, who was helping up one of his fallen comrades. "By Sigmar!" said the fallen halberdier. "This is a tough one!"

"You and your gift in understatements!" shouted another halberdier, who was fighting for his life. "Quit yapping and help me! This thing is killing me!"

The halberdier ducked just as the cleaver-like greatsword swept over his head, cutting off the plumes on his helm. He leaped and bounded desperately, trying to evade the monster's wrath. The other halberdiers hurriedly circled around, and once they had a clear path to the Beastlord's flanks, they thrust their halberds into its flesh.

Though the Beastlord could feel nary a prickle, it retaliated with the ferocity disproportionate to the insult. One of the halberdiers was all but pulverised. Another lost his weapon and scampered about for his dear life. Three more halberdiers joined the fray, and they thrust their weapons with all their might. Their effort paid off, they managed to pierce its armor and its thick hide and bury their halberds deep into its flesh. The rampaging mutant flailed with inhuman violence, and the halberdiers struggled to maintain their grip and to bring the creature down.

Just as one of them raised his halberd, ready to split its skull, the Beastlord broke free from its restraints and rammed into him. The halberdier crashed into the stall behind him and sprawled upon the debris and snow. He coughed and gurgled. He could feel his blood flooding his lungs. Blood spilled from his mouth as he uttered a curse. Through his fading vision, he beheld a heartening sight, that of a steel-clad giant in armored robes, the warrior priest.

The warrior priest was shrouded in divine radiance, untroubled by the bleeding on his forehead and his numerous nicks and cuts. His breastplate and mantle was chipped and scratched, but otherwise intact. The halberdier raised his hand and clutched the hem of the robes weakly. The warrior priest looked upon him, and he could see that his breastplate was dented sharply. It did not take a Shallyan nun or a physician to know that his ribs had collapsed inwards and pierced his organs. The halberdier must had realised his impending death, for his amber eyes were not yearning for salvation, but for vengeance. Wearing an assuring smile, the warrior priest crouched before him.

"Rest now," his powerful voice was strangely soothing, "Take your rightful place by Sigmar's side." The halberdier smiled in relief as he sighed his last.

Brother Gottlieb placed his hand over the expired halberdier's eyes and uttered a solemn prayer, both to Sigmar and to Morr. He observed a moment of silence before turning his attention towards the rampaging Beastlord. His expression hardened, and he swore a grim oath to his patron. He rose, gripping his warhammer tightly, and advanced upon the brute. With every step, he chanted furious verses, his hate and anger riding upon his every word. The divine radiance which surrounded him blazed, his warhammer burnt with righteous fire. His wounds seared and steamed, and the holy words etched into his armor glowed with the light of the divines.

Even without the grandiose display of divine favor, the Beastlord could not fail to notice his coming. There was simply no masking those heavy boots. As it looked at the warrior priest, it showed a moment of clarity. It snarled, blood and spittle hanging from its razor-like teeth, and it thundered towards Sigmar's champion.

Brother Gottlieb swatted aside its scything blade, surprising the off-balanced mutant. He followed up his attack and slammed away its greatshield. He thrusted his warhammer to towards its chest, but the mutant had leaped back.

The warrior priest refused to relent. He followed and swung for its shoulder. The Beastlord raised its greatshield, and despite the successful block, it was forced onto one knee.

That blow was vicious. Its left arm was shaking. It could feel that blow in its bones. The warrior priest raised his warhammer for another blow, and the Beastlord slammed its shield into his chest, shoving him back.

The mutant looked to its shield, and to its great displeasure, that slab of steel had bent warped to the point of uselessness. Growling, and it tossed the shield away and held its greatsword in both hands. It swung its blade down at the approaching warrior priest.

Brother Gottlieb raised his warhammer and caught the blade in its head. With a mighty swing, he snapped the greatsword and struck the mutant's cheek with an audible crack. The Beastlord recoiled and fell to its side. Before it could regain its footing, Brother Gottlieb swung into its back, hard, forcing it to ground.

Growling, and writhing in the snow, the Beastlord looked at the looming warrior priest balefully. "Tell bloody Khorne this," said the warrior priest as he raised his warhammer over its head, "For every faithful slain, I shall avenge him twelvefold."

The mutant lord cursed its wrathful patron, as the hammer fell upon its skull.

Brother Gottlieb leaned heavily against his warhammer. The blessings had lifted, and he could feel the excruciating pain assaulting him from his every wound. He muttered a prayer of thanks as he got up. He swept his gaze and saw that all eyes were on him. With a grunt, he heaved his warhammer high, to the cheers of the triumphant crowd.

Glossary:

(1) Khazrak the One-Eye: Notoriously cunning beastman chieftain. Raids, pillages and ambushes all over Drakwald Forest, Middenland. Nemesis of the Elector Count of Middenland, Graf Boris Todbringer.

He took its eye. It took his. They were all over each other since.

(Warhammer Fantasy Battles 7th Edition: Beasts of Chaos, page 68)

(2) Valten: Chosen of Sigmar. Also (claimed to be) Sigmar reborn. Blacksmith's son. Born in Lachenbad, Reikland. Had the Twin-Tailed Comet (birthmark) on his chest. On his eighteenth birthday, slew beastmen pillagers with a pair of hammers. Taken by Luthor Huss, Prophet of Sigmar (self-proclaimed) to see the Emperor Karl Franz. The Emperor gave him the warhammer Ghal Maraz and declared him spiritual leader of the Empire (and smoothly averted civil war). Fought Archaon in single combat. Wounded and rendered unconscious. (Conveniently) Assassinated by skaven.

( wiki/Valten)


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: The Velvet Rose**

Though the bells had rung the fifth time that day, the rising moons Mannslieb and Morrslieb, barely visible behind the billowing clouds, told General Augustus that dusk had fallen. The blizzard had all but abated, though the newfound clarity did nothing to improve the general's mood.

The general stood by the ledge, his hands clasped behind his back. The scene unfolding on the streets below offered him no cause for celebration. From his vantage point, he could see his men, lanterns and shovels in hand, heading into the frozen battleground. These brave warriors dug through the snow, recovering frostbitten corpses, men and otherwise, and separated them. The fallen bodies of their comrades were piled into carts, to be ferried to the Garden of Morr outside the town's walls. The carcasses of their enemy were unceremoniously tossed into the burning pyres as fuel for the roaring flames.

Drab tents were erected along the hastily-cleared street. The general could hear the cries and wails from within the shelters. Carts hurried back and forth, ferrying the wounded. He whispered a prayer, beseeching Shallya to either save his men, or failing that, speed their passage into her father's domain (1).

The general closed his eyes, his breath fogged as he sighed. "Hauser," he called out to the Greatsword behind him, with nary a glance, "Casualty report." The general's champion nodded and ran his estimate, "Sergeant Tillermann's unit, near total loss. About one-third of our handgunners dead. Two cannons wrecked, crew slaughtered. Three Greatswords fallen in battle. Every other unit has suffered at least one third loss." Hieronymus ashened expression remained unchanged. Hauser glanced at him before offering, "Shall I arrange for a messenger to Middenheim?"

"No, you will not," replied the general with a tired sigh. "His Imperial Majesty needs all the men he can muster."

"Then I shall arrange for recruitment," Hauser helpfully offered.

Hieronymus turned to look at the greatsword, wearing a melancholic smile, "You do that." Hauser nodded in reply.

The sound of heavy boots announced the arrival of the warrior priest Brother Vertrauen Gottlieb. The giant did not escape the melee unscathed. His tattered black robe exposed the broken links underneath. His breastplate and mantle exhibited many nicks and cuts, and one of his wax seals had fallen off. The silver chain which linked his prayer book to his armor was shattered, forcing its owner to carry the steel-cover tome in his massive fist. The warrior priest himself carried wounds of his own, all of which were minor and all of which were sealed by Sigmar's grace.

"At least you looked none the worse for wear," Hieronymus thought, watching the warrior priest place, or rather, drop his heavy tome onto the desk. He could see subtle signs of weariness on the warrior priest. He was slouching slightly and his steps were a little heavier than when he met him earlier that day.

The general looked at the Hauser, the Greatsword, and his compatriot behind him, before turning back to the warrior priest. His hands unclasped and fell to his sides. "Gentlemen," he announced, with modest fanfare, "welcome the Hero of Salzenmund. "

"'A' Hero of Salzenmund," the warrior priest corrected the general as he laid his warhammer against the desk. He straightened himself, his poise confident, though he still retained that slight slouch, "I did not win this battle alone."

"And I suppose this is where you are going to praise my men for their bravery," replied the general with a small, tired smile. The warrior priest's lips quivered, "Indeed, indeed. And I shall praise you too. Had you not maneuvered your men for a countercharge, we wouldn't be speaking to each other now."

"I simply did what any general would do," replied Hieronymus modestly as he turned back towards the riverbank. "The enemy made a mistake and I exploited it. None of it would have mattered, however, had you not rallied Tillermann's unit and held the line."

Brother Gottlieb bowed his head slightly, noting the general's melancholy. "Perhaps. I apologise for the loss of your men." General Augustus merely shrugged, "They were well aware of the risks when they enlisted. No need to apologise." He turned his gaze towards the dark, unlighted Slums District, visible from the top of the Port Authorities Building, "Their ranks will be filled soon enough, you will see. No shortage of young men and women eager to enlist, especially when promised warm food, regular wages and pensions." He then looked at Hauser and added glumly, "Replenishing the Greatswords would be problematic, however. (2)"

The warrior priest remained stone-faced, but his eyes could not hide his surprise. "The Augustus I knew would have openly mourned the dead," he remarked "And the Gottlieb I knew would have preached that martyrdom was to be celebrated," replied the general as he turned back to the warrior priest, smiling weakly.

Brother Gottlieb cracked a tired smile, "I see we have both changed."

"Yes, we have, old friend," replied the general, patting the warrior priest's mantle lightly, "Yes, we have."

The exchange was interrupted by hurried footsteps, ascending up the stairs. The arrival, a halberdier clutching a missive, bent forward, hands on his knees, and panted to catch his breath. He took one last gulp before stepping towards the warrior priest.

Brother Gottlieb saw the half-a-halberd upon his belt and immediately recognised this halberdier as the one who stood defiantly against a beastigor earlier that day, wielding that same broken weapon and a short sword. "Here comes another hero of Salzenmund," he thought, smiling welcomingly.

"Brother Gottlieb," the halberdier greeted. He then looked towards his general and added, "General Augustus." He stood before the giant, a good two heads taller than he, and held out the scroll, "Message for you, Brother."

"Who sent you?" asked the warrior priest as he unravelled the parchment. "A strange, hooded man," replied the halberdier. "Must be Sister Fruehauf," replied the warrior priest with a smirk.

"I see she inherited the family's penchant for disreputed company," the general frowned. The warrior priest held the message sideways, lowering it to the general's level, and letting the brazier's light to illuminate the cursive words, "Give your thanks to Sigmar. If she was here, she would be cross with you."

"And she would threaten to break my knees, I expect," snorted the general. Brother Gottlieb smirked, "Better than being sent into the dungeons." The general peeked at the message and frowned, "As much a taskmaster as her father."

"She is her father's daughter, is she not?" said the warrior priest with a smirk.

"Mmm-hmmph!" harrumphed the general. He then turned towards the halberdier and ordered, his voice level but firm, "Sergeant Lachenbad! You and Marksman Rudelmann will assist Brother Gottlieb in his endeavour. Take five of your men and go with him. Rudelmann will do the same. If he refuses, tell him its the General's order!"

Then halberdier raised his hand into a salute, "Yes, General... What?" He stopped himself, disbelieving what he had heard.

"You heard me, 'Sergeant'! Now get to it!"

"Ah, aye, General!"

The halberdier turned towards Brother Gottlieb and uttered reverently, "It is an honor to serve with you again, Brother." The warrior priest, still smiling, nodded in reply, "The honor is mine."

* * *

Giovanni Giuseppe shivered as the frigid air wheezed into the hall of the Velvet Rose. He looked towards the main entrance, a large wooden gate rather than a door and frowned. Feeling eyes upon him, he looked towards the corridors. He could see the cowled figures, armed with crossbows. He shook his head and waved at them, and the cowled people nodded back before disappearing back into the darkness.

The Tilean sighed. He looked around once more, looking for any signs of hostilities. Part of the structure had crumbled and collapsed, buffeted by the howling winds and the fierce sun for over a decade. Shadows danced merrily to the light of Mannslieb, which had trickled from these crumbled spots.

The faded velvet banners, all tattered, swayed pathetically to the breeze. The velvet curtains, once richly colored and suspended over the cabaret stage, were now draped over the wooden platform, like withered women. The furniture, lovingly carved and crafted, were now food for the common vermin or fuel for his bonfire.

Giovanni grumbled as he looked towards the flickering flames again. Grumbling, he tossed a chair's leg into the bonfire. It had been nearly twelve hours, and his quarry had not arrived. The wolves were getting hungry, restless, impatient. Why would they not? The prey they were promised was absent, despite his frequent assurances that she would be arriving soon.

The mercenary scratched his stubbled chin as he reflected upon the events of the day. He knew the witch hunter will be looking for the missing watchmen and he was certain she will visit the Drunk Boar. He remembered giving clear instructions to his fellow conspirators, standing by in the tavern, to lead her here, right into the clutches of thirty crossbow-wielding Khainite cultists. He hung his head and stared at the ruined ceiling, wondering what could have gone wrong.

Could it be that they had failed in following his instructions?

Impossible! For as long as he had led them, they had followed his instructions down to the letter!

Perhaps they were incompetent?

Impossible! They had expertly spirited away street urchins, beggars and other won't-be-missed, leaving hardly any trace of their disappearance!

Perhaps the witch hunter did not visit, due to the battle in the Docks District?

Impossible! Witch hunters do not shy from battle. Moreover, it was evident from her activities on the past year that she took priority on the safety of her subordinates!

He narrowed down the possibility to only one: Jurgen Hoegaarden himself. He wasn't one of them; they had coaxed his cooperation. Could he had betrayed their treachery? It was likely, he thought. The man was a coward. Rough him up a little and he will spill his innards. Realising the possibility and the danger it posed, he raised his arm, to signal for a quick meeting.

As if on cue, a lone blasphemer crashed into one of the decaying tables before him. Giovanni, stood dumbfounded. Shaking his surprise, he shot his eyes upwards to determine where he had fallen from. Having found that spot, he hurried up the stairs, his Draich drawn.

What he saw in that room made his stomach clench. One of his men was pinned to the bed by a table's leg, driven through his chest. Another bore a crushed leg and a slit throat, sprawled on the wooden floor. There was one still alive, crawling and writhing and squirming, his hands clutching his throat in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. Giovanni hurried towards the dying man and crouched before him. "Where is she?" he demanded, and the cultist weakly raised his hand and pointed towards the open window, the frayed curtain flapping outwards. Giovanni stood up and raised his Draich. He stabbed the cultist in the throat, and with a twist, detached his head.

The Tilean strode towards the window, weapon ready, and peeked out of the window. He cringed, feeling vessels in his cheeks warming to combat the biting chill. It took him a moment to acclimate himself and he started examining the surrounds. He could hear a fluttering sound above him and looked upwards, and true enough, there was an opened window overhead, its curtains billowing outwards. He walked out of the room and found that his men had gathered, by the doorway and the opposite ledge, their weapons readied. They lowered their weapons, upon seeing their leader. Giovanni motioned them to follow.

The coven hurried up the three flights of rickety stairs towards the room directly over the last one. Immediately, they took their positions; seven in the opposite corridor, the rest with him. Giovanni pointed at the opened door, and the two closest ones rushed into the room. They tripped suddenly. A rusting halberd fell and cut one in the spine. A small, spherical object rolled into Giovanni's feet, and Giovanni, upon recognising it, cried in warning.

Giovanni coughed and gagged as he futilely waved away the thick smoke which had engulfed him. His nostrils stung and his eyes watered. The smoke was too thick for him to see anything but struggling silhouettes. He could hear his men crying and coughing in anguish. A crossbow bolt whizzed by, narrowly missing him. There was no clashing of steel, only the slicing of flesh. The smoke cleared, he saw eight bodies sprawled on the corridor. Three were cut and stabbed, the rest skewered by bolts. The witch hunter was not amongst them.

Grinding his teeth, the Tilean assassin gathered his men. He brought thirty cultists, almost the entirety of his coven, here. He counted only seventeen left. In less than half an hour, they were down by nearly half strength.

The witch hunter was still here, stalking about in these halls, that much he was certain. Obviously, she had used an unconventional entrance. The manner of his man's demise suggested that all of these was carefully planned for. She must had been here for much longer, studying them while remaining out of sight. How long had she been here?

That question was irrelevant, he decided. He needed to find her, before the soldiers and the warrior priest arrive from the Docks District. The ambush had failed. A contingency needed to be devised.

"Stolzer," he said as he turned towards one of the cultists. "You will take two men, bar the entrance and make sure nobody enters or exits. If you see Imperial colors, burn the curtains and buy us time to retreat. Keep an eye out for the witch hunter." The cultist named Halman Stolzer nodded. "Egidius will take three others and secure the Diamond Suite. Schumacher, take four and search floors two and three. The rest will follow me. We will meet up again in the commons after an hour, regardless if we found anything. If any of you found the witch hunter, send a runner to summon the rest of us. Under no circumstances are any of us to pursue the witch hunter alone."

The Tilean raised his Draich and plunged it into the floorboards. The blade sliced through the wood as effortlessly as it did paper. His tanned face contorted into a mask of anger as he declared, "Khaine demands vengeance. He will not be denied."

* * *

Brother Rambrecht Hauptmann was shaken There was no denying that. What he experienced churned his gut. He could still feel the warm blood seeping into his cowl. That fiend, she was so close. It could have very well been him who was killed.

The cultist jumped. He spun towards the darkness behind him, his crossbow readied, and backed away, towards the torchbearer behind him. "What did you see?" Brother Fabian Schumacher demanded. "Brother Hauptmann! What did you see?"

Rambrecht's brow was drenched in sweat. He was sure he saw something scurrying about behind him at the corner of his eye. And yet, even after staring long and hard into the corridor opposite of him, he could see nothing. Everything was still.

"Brother Hauptmann!" Brother Schumacher shouted. "Nothing," replied Rambrecht loudly as he lowered his crossbow. "Nothing at all, Brother."

The team leader looked at the cultist with skeptical eyes. He turned towards Brother Aldric Philippus, the torchbearer, and gestured towards the unlit passageway. Brother Philippus nodded, and with drawn sword, walked into the dark.

He returned shortly after and shook his head. Brother Schumacher's torso rose and sank visibly, as though sighing in relief. He rubbed his forehead and turned back in the direction of his intended destination. Rambrecht Hauptmann's heart sank. It seemed he wasn't the only one ill at ease.

These turn of events had given these darkened hallways and rooms a sinister quality. He saw phantoms behind every curtain. He felt as though he was scrutinised by the rusted sentinels along the corridor. He imagined horrors waiting behind every door. His knowledge of the history and the reputation of this 'Palace of Debauchery' only heightened his anxiety. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was cursed.

The search party inched slowly down the corridor, opening doors and searching everything in the rooms. They checked outside the window, inside the closets and under the beds. So far, they had found nothing, except for a few rats and roosting ravens.

Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor, close to the gate. There was illumination below them. "Hey, Brother Schumacher! Found anything?" a voice Rambrecht recognised as Brother Halman Stolzer's called out. Fabian went to the railing and replied loudly, "No, nothing! How about you?"

"Nothing as of now. No sign of the garrison outside the gate either."

"Well, if you saw anything, just shout. We will come down right away."

"Acknowledged. Khaine's will be done."

"Murder is its own reward."

Brother Schumacher strode towards the door. He looked towards Brother Philippus and motioned towards the doorway. Brother Phillippus nodded and cautiously stepped into the maw.

Their search had turned up nothing, as Rambrecht had secretly hoped. Having exhausted every possible hiding place, the search party turned to leave. The torchbearer was the first to exit the room, as per usual. However, Brother Philippus paused as soon as he exited the doorway. He then hurried to the railing and looked down. He gave out an audible gasp.

"What is it?" Brother Schumacher demanded. "No light," rasped Brother Philippus. "There is no light!"

* * *

Rambrecht tried to shake away the image of Brother Stolzer's severed head, but it was no use. Stolzer's bloodshot eyes, with shrunken pupils, had burnt deep into his memory like a newly-cut scar. He could still feel his head against his feet.

He could scarcely believe that Brother Stolzer and his men would be massacred right under his nose. Four dead, one beheaded by a very fine wire. There was hardly any sign of struggle.

It was only the thought of the witch hunter's inevitable demise that stopped him from panicking. They found blood drops, leading towards the kitchen. Brother Schumacher was certain that the witch hunter was wounded. Sister Pflaume's blood-stained dagger lent credence to that. Yet, he had a strong feeling that something was very wrong. There was something contrived about the whole thing. He couldn't put a finger on why.

"Stop it!" he told himself. "Have faith in Khaine. She is wounded, He made sure of that!"

"Now we get to finish her, in the name of Khaine. What a joyous occasion," Brother Schumacher's fevered rambling finished his thought. Rambrecht could not fail to see that he was following Brother Philippus, the torchbearer, too closely, or that he was wearing a rather manic grin. Fear and relief were warring inside him, trying to claw onto the surface while kicking the other back down into his core. Under most circumstances, Rambrecht, and his colleagues, would had slain him then and there for his display of weakness. Not this night, however. They were equally complicit in this crime.

The kitchen's atmosphere had thus far done nothing but exacerbate the terror. The rusting knives clinked and clanged, their menacing edges reminded him of the fangs of daemons. Red eyes were watching him from every dark corner. He thought he saw a malicious green gleam amongst them, but when he looked again, it was gone.

The trail of blood led them to the stairs at the end of this vast kitchen. Brother Schumacher deflated, as he looked into the abyss. Brother Philippus looked nervous, not even his shrugs could disguise that. He hesitated before taking his first steps into the pit.

Two minutes. Five. The lantern-light was still there, but Brother Philippus was awfully silent. Brother Schumacher called out to him, but there was no response.

Brother Schumacher was quaking now. He looked towards Rambrecht. "Go find out what happened to Brother Philippus," he said. Rambrecht, less than eager to venture into the unknown, impulsively argued, "No, you go down! You are the leader!"

Brother Schumacher looked at the rest of his men. He gulped visibly and uttered slowly, "We..all go down."

The creak of the rotted stairs shook Rambrecht's heart. His heart still quaked even after his feet touched solid ground. They found Brother Philippus sprawling before the boiler room, an axe in his back, and at the foot of the pillar beside him, a bundle of headless rats.

A silent whizz and the lantern was knocked over and snuffed out, engulfing the cultists in total darkness. Brother Schumacher shrieked and swung his sword wildly, shouting and wailing as though he had lost his mind. "Someone, stop him!" Rambrecht pleaded.

Rambrecht recoiled, having felt warm fluids splattering onto his robes. Screaming, he scurried away to hide.

He was drowned in an unholy din. Rambrecht held his ears, trying to drown out the yells, the wails and the screams. He sobbed, and was still sobbing when all was silent.

He waited. And waited. It felt like an eternity. Eventually, he could not bear the silence and croaked, "Fabian?"

No answer.

"Fabian?" Rambrecht called out louder. "Gotsche? Anyone?"

Silence.

Still weeping, Rambrecht got back onto his feet and inched away from his corner. He constantly turned back and forth, trying to cover all corners, as he cautiously stepped out into the open. His elbow hit something, and he leaped back with a panic cry. He barely stopped himself from attacking. This person was known to him.

"Ulman! Thank Khaine, you are still alive!" he cried, awashed in relief. He froze immediately afterwards, sensing something was wrong. Ulman was stiff and unmoving, as though frozen. Rambrecht pointed his dagger at him as he cautiously inched closer. He yelped in surprise, as Ulman suddenly collapsed. A thin blade shot out from behind Ulman and sank into Rambrecht's neck.

* * *

Nearly fifteen minutes had passed since the patrol discovered the remains of Sister Egidius's team at the foot of the stairs leading up into the Diamond Suite. Giovanni's men were convinced that they were being hounded. There was that noise, sporadic but persistent. No matter how many times they followed those near inaudible footsteps, they always found nothing, except, perhaps, a few rats, gnawing at the frozen furniture.

Giovanni recalled what he saw at the bottom of those accursed stairs, what happened to Sister Egidius's team. Brother Lupus Schwab was found sprawled at the foot of the stairs, the blood smear suggested that he was violently stabbed while ascending the stairs. Brother Nicolaus Kroppen was caught by surprise, most likely. He never put up a struggle. Sister Egidius was not with them. It was likely she, or rather, what's left of her, was still inside the Diamond Suite.

There was nothing clean about the kill.

Giovanni stopped his men from investigating, despite their protests. He knew what that damnable Fruehauf was doing. Kill a few, leave their bodies lying around to serve as bait. Leave behind the nightmarish displays to crush morale. Those were the same tactics he used occasionally. It was likely she would also leave signs of being wounded to lure his men into a false sense of security.

To think that a witch hunter would know, and utilise, those very same tricks he once employed. He shouldn't be surprised. Witch hunters are killers, through and through. His travels had vindicated that belief more than five dozen times over. For all their self-righteousness and show of piety, they were all bloodthirsty, murderous beasts inside.

It wasn't the savagery of the butchery which had affected his team, however. Many years in the murder business had desensitised the regular Khainite to such things. No, it was the 'freshness' of the kill. They couldn't had been far away when this happened. Probably two or three rooms away. He had regretted allowing Brother Meus to touch Brother Kroppen's remains with his bare hands. It was his declaration that the corpse was 'as warm as it were alive' which had crushed the spirits of their men. The thought that such butchery could happen so close to them with them being none the wiser had truly terrified them.

It did not help that the other lantern-lights had vanished. None of his men voiced it, but Giovanni suspected that they had concluded that they were the only ones left. He saw how they gripped their daggers, swords and axes so tightly, so ready to strike, and he saw them jumping at their own shadow.

The Velvet Rose itself didn't help.

Over ten years of neglect had turned this embellished brothel into a deathtrap. Just ten minutes ago, the floorboards gave way and plunged Brother Wolfram to the bottom floor, where he was struck by a rusting halberd, placed in just the right position to fall on him with the slightest disturbance. Even more recently, the breeze suddenly gathered strength and sent the ceiling crashing down on them. Obviously the disrepair had made the place hazardous, though the cultists were keen to place the blame squarely on the witch hunter's shoulders and the so-called curse of the Velvet Rose.

What a superstitious lot. What he wouldn't give to have less Imperials and more Tileans in his coven. At least Tileans were ruled by their heads, not by their hearts. It was no wonder that a Tilean invented the steam tanks (3), not the Imperials, despite the latter's enthusiastic usage of the machines in their war against Chaos.

Being Imperial, Fruehauf must had realised her people's superstitious nature. Nothing terrifies more than the unseen and the unknown. She must had understood that, considering how she had used it against his cell. Always out of sight, flitting around, leaving savaged bodies here and there. Far as his men were concerned, they might as well be tracking a phantom, a revenant, a wraith. She had his respect, loathed as he was to admit it. That was expertly done. He wondered if the other witch hunters were just as savvy.

Not that it alleviated his anger or his hatred for her. Not even the slightest.

What they saw upon arrival in the Velvet Rose's hall had affirmed his expectations and confirmed his men's fears. Brother Stolzer's team was indeed massacred. Strewn around the gate, a feast for hyenas. He did not see Brother Schumacher and his team, but looking at the dried blood drops, he imagined that they had followed the trail into the kitchen and perished there, the fools.

One of the hunched cultists, whom Giovanni recognised as Brother Grefter, timidly approached the coven leader. Shuddering, he asked softly, his voice trembling, "My Lord...should we follow the blood drops?"

Giovanni, frowning, answered, "No. The bloodstains are dry. Whoever left them here was either long gone or dead." Brother Grefter hesitated for a moment, before asking once again slowly, "My Lord...we...we are all that's left...aren't we?"

Before the Tilean could answer, the unmistakable, thunderous roar of a firearm shook the hall. A steel chandelier crashed down right after and crushed one of the cultist beneath its mass. The others were quick enough to leap and tumble away, and Brother Grefter, shrieking in panic, scrambled for the gate.

He screamed and screamed as he rammed into the rotten gate. As soon as the gate gave way, he was pelted by a hail of lead shots. Brother Hermsmann, the only surviving cultist beside Giovanni, wailed in despair.

"Please," he pleaded to the invisible witch hunter. "Please, spare us!"

She discourteously withheld her answer.

Giovanni growled as he marched towards the trembling cultist. He snatched his subordinate by his collar, lifted him slightly and barked at him, "Get ahold of yourself!" The crying cultist whimpered, "But..."

Giovanni, red with anger, drew his dagger and pointed the wicked thing towards the cultist's nostril.

"You will grow a sack, _glabro eunuco_, or I'll cut off your cock!"

He pitilessly shoved away Brother Hermsmann with a grunt. The cultist, trembling and on his back, resumed wailing, "We are doomed!"

He got up and continued to wail madly, "We are all doomed! Outside, inside, it doesn't matter, we will all die!"

Giovanni grunted as he turned away. Doing his best to ignore the insane cultist, he wracked his brain. He paced back and forth, trying to derive a solution. He hated to admit it, but Brother Hermsmann was right. They were well and trapped in this accursed place. If they go up, they will likely find the witch hunter waiting. If they go out by the gate, they will be right in the sights of the handgunners. If they tried to tunnel into the subterranean highway, both parties will converge upon them.

The terrified cultist whined as he looked at the chandelier and the crushed remains of his comrade. He looked at Brother Grefter, and then at Giovanni Giuseppe. He then stared at the upper floors.

He laughed.

The Tilean assassin hissed in annoyance as he glared at his subordinate. His subordinate ignored his venomous glare and laughed and laughed.

Just as suddenly, he stopped laughing. "She could have killed me," he muttered. "She could have killed all of us, right here, right now. It's just two of us. Such trifling numbers. We are but little lambs for the slaughter."

Giovanni grunted and pledged to ignore him.

"But she didn't! She didn't! And her underlings, they didn't storm us! Why? Why?"

The next words gave Giovanni pause. This line of thought was something he could not ignore.

"But, but of course! Of course! She's giving me a chance! She's giving me a chance! That's it! I could be spared! That's what she's telling me! That's what she's telling me!"

Giovanni gripped his dagger tightly.

"She's telling me to repent." concluded the cultist, pulling down his mask, exposing a manic grin.

"She's telling me to repent. Yes. But I must be sincere. Yes, I must show my sincerity. I must show it. Yes, yes..." Brother Hermsmann's eyes turned murderous. "Yes, kill him. Kill Lord Giuseppe and all will be forgiven."

Giovanni assumed a guard, waiting on the rambling cultist. His thoughts turned to Fruehauf, and he cursed her name. All these misfortunes were her fault.

* * *

Giovanni Giuseppe bled much, and he continued to bleed as he ascended up the stairs towards the Diamond Suite. He clutched his side tightly, a tattered velvet cloth wound around his belly. Not that it helped. A wound inflicted by a jagged blade do not close properly without skilled treatment. Still, he pushed on, motivated by vengeance.

The comfortably-wide stairs opened up into a chamber of wonders. Or what used to be a chamber of wonders. Velvet curtains and banners adorned the ceilings and windows, stained glasses depicting all manner of debauchery in parody of the famous collage of 'Life of Sigmar', the floor itself littered with once-plush cushions, filthy underwear and perfumed candles. These blasphemous displays made obvious the hedonism which once permeated the hall.

The coven leader did not linger to take in the sights. He limped on, desperation dogging his steps. If he was to die here, he will take that accursed Fruehauf with him.

He stepped on and tripped upon a stiff arm. Groaning, he lifted himself and staggered back on his feet. He looked down and found what was left of Sister Beatrix Egidius.

He heard it again, the soft pitter-patters. His gaze shot towards one of the lushly-crafted pillars and he saw the hem of a cloak vanishing into a corner.

Giovanni unsheathed his Draich and limped towards the spot, and in its place he found a wooden mannequin, its anatomy reflected the real thing. Incensed, he threw his head up and shouted in rage, "Come out, Fruehauf, you coward! I know you are there!"

She kept her silence.

Further incensed, the Tilean ranted, "Stop hiding around! Come out and face me! Lurking around the dark, slaying my men, leaving their bodies lying around to be feasted upon by rats! Some righteous soul you are! What makes you any different from us?

_Uccidere cagna_!"

And there it was again. That flitting about in the dark.

Giovanni brandished his greatsword at the dark, "Show yourself, _maibd_!"

A stabbing pain assaulted him from his back.

Giovanni swung his blade around, only to feel a cold blade sinking into his thigh. He brought his Draich down, and yet again, his foe slipped away.

She was too close, right beneath the effective range of his long blade. Her single straight-bladed dagger danced around his guard, forcing him to falter with each strike. His thigh was growing numb, the floor behind him was getting slicker and more slippery with each passing moment. Acting quickly, the Tilean's arm swept for his dagger and tore it violently from its sheath.

The slash halted the witch hunter's ferocious strikes, at least just long enough for him to look into those hate-filled eyes. The respite was mercilessly brief; he could feel another blade jammed into his wounded side.

Giovanni pushed the fiend back. His left leg buckled, his leggings drenched in his own blood. His vision was getting hazy. He was denied even a moment to catch his breath. the witch hunter was upon him again, her twin fangs striking down for his shoulders.

The Tilean recovered quickly enough to swing his Draich at her, forcing her back. Before he could push the offense, a warrior priest and a pair of state troops - a halberdier sergeant and a handgunner marksman - burst into the scene. The handgunner's snap-shot narrowly missed the assassin. The halberdier charged, intent in driving his polearm into him. Giovanni sidestepped and swung his Draich down, misdirecting the halberd. He turned his blade around, and he failed to intercept the falling warhammer.

He crashed into the wall behind him. The warhammer had missed him, but the sheer force of its impact had propelled him back. He saw his foes closing in and knew that his fortune had turned. Swiftly, he got up and flung himself out of the nearby stained window without a second thought.

* * *

"Was there no escaping her?" wondered Giovanni. The shadows, once his steadfast ally, had abandoned him. The roofs, once thought safe, was now as treacherous as the frosty wind. That damnable witch hunter had intercepted him, swooping from the skies like a furious hawk. Were it not for his honed senses, that would be the end of him.

He stood cold and bleeding. He could barely feel his right thigh. The chill had seeped into his wounds. The glass shards gnawed into his right shoulder. He was feeling light-headed; he had summoned everything to remain conscious.

The witch hunter before him was like a spirit host, with no definite form. Her outline was blurred; her only sharp features being her emerald-green eyes, so filled with hate, and her silver appendages. Perhaps she was partly incorporeal, or perhaps he lost too much blood. She stood with her right foot forward, her longer blade angling upwards, its guard pointed towards her left hip, a stance he recognised as the 'low ward'. He knew that by assuming this ward, she intended to dodge to his left, whereupon she would discharge thrusts upon thrusts into him. How she expected to do so was beyond him; the ascent on his left was much too steep. Discarding that thought, he lunged at her, swinging his Draich at her right shoulder.

She defied his expectations and somehow slipped to his back. Hissing, he swung backwards. His Draich bit into the loose tiles. The witch hunter herself slid her dagger between his ribs. Finding himself suddenly gasping for breath, he retaliated sloppily. The witch hunter slipped away and reassumed a low ward.

He clenched his teeth, trying to stifle the pain. He lunged at her once again, and found himself precariously perched on the ledge. Having regained his footing, he turned towards his opponent, only to see a pommel smashing towards him.

Giovanni's face met the brick wall of the opposite building. He slid down the wall and fell towards the stall below. He cried as he ripped through the cloth tent, smashed into the wooden displays and barrels of fish and rolled onto the snow-covered street. He coughed, struggling to catch his breath. He sighted a looming shadow over him and rolled towards the sidewalk, just as a rapier plunged into the cobblestones below him. He got up immediately, drawing his dagger to strike. The witch hunter swung around and repelled his attack. She had drawn her second dagger and stabbed towards him, forcing him to retreat. His right buckled, to his alarm. He coughed and gasped, spitting blood onto the snow. With great desperation, he rolled back, just as the witch hunter stabbed downwards for his shoulders.

Undeterred, the witch hunter advanced upon him again. He lifted his weapon and saw that his dagger had shattered. His eyes darted for his Draich, which he found lodged into a fish-basket behind the witch hunter. His fatigued limbs screamed as he narrowly dodged her relentless strikes. Hearing heavy boots behind him, he spun around just in time to catch a thrusting halberd. He wrenched the weapon away from his attacker, hurling said halberdier into the witch hunter's path. He lifted the polearm and barely blocked a swing from above.

His muscles ached. He briefly blacked out. His right lung clenched painfully. He shoved the halberdier back, and he swung around, forcing Fruehauf back. He tried to stab at her, and was disarmed for his trouble. He staggered back, hands on his smashed nose. Next he knew, he was lying sprawled on the cobblestones, having being flung from his feet with a halberd lodged into his shoulder.

The witch hunter stood over him wordlessly, her hands still clutching the haft, her boot firmly planted on the halberd's head. Giovanni's bones gave out a sickening crunched and he let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Damn you! Damn you!" cursed Giovanni hoarsely, as he attempted to shake the halberd free. He continued his tirades in between his pained wheezes, "Curse you! May Khaine take you! You _puttana_! You..."

Fruehauf shoved her steel-tipped boot into his cheek. "I have not permitted you to speak," she said coldly. She held out her hand to receive a torch, which she then thrust into the Tilean's wound.

Giovanni screamed as his flesh sizzled and seared shut around the halberd's tip. After catching his breath, he growled painfully, "Why should I tell you anything?" The witch hunter regarded him for a moment, held the halberd and twisted it slightly, wringing a tortured scream from his lips. "Damn you!" swore Giovanni. Suddenly short of breath, he coughed and gulped once more.

The heretic gasped, steam seeped from his every orifice. His skin blackened and cracked and shrivelled, revealing the flesh roasting beneath. He coughed and laughed, "All that trouble, all for nothing. Oh, blessed Khaine."

He was all shrivelled and dry when he sighed his last. The witch hunter stared at the body for a while, before planting her boot into its cheek. She looked towards the snow where he spat his blood and saw that the snow had melted and boiled, the blood itself evaporated. She turned to the two halberdiers and ordered, her voice terribly cold, "Cordon the area." The halberdiers hastily saluted and hurried to execute her orders, while the witch hunter examined the corpse.

**Glossary:**

(1) Shallya, Goddess of Healing, Mercy and Childbirth, is the daughter of Morr, God of Death and Dreams.

(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Ed 2: Tome of Salvation Chapter II: Old World Cults, The Cult of Shallya, page 50)

(2) Greatswords are hand-picked by the Elector Counts.

(Warhammer Fantasy Battle Ed 7: Empire: Soldiers of the Empire, The Elite State Troops, page 10)

(3) Steam Tanks are invented by Leornado de Miragliano, a Tilean City State.

( wiki/Steam_Tank)

**Author's Commentary:**

About darn time I finished this chapter. I apologise for disappearing for over two months, but they were busy months, with work demanding my attention almost daily. Workload had increase sevenfold and I could only stop to catch my breath. My readers and this story were always in my thoughts throughout, you have my word.

Chapter 12 has been a very challenging chapter to write. I wanted to illustrate that witch hunters, especially Fruehauf, are not ones to trifle with. At first, this chapter was combined with chapter 11, but as it turned out, that made the chapter too long to read. I grew fatigued just trying to revise it. That draft did not introduce General Augustus and his merry men, all of whom will be playing important roles in the future. Rather silly on hindsight. So i introduced them, and that lengthened the chapter even more.

What do I do? Well, I split the chapter. With that problem solved, I could now worry about the contents of one chapter instead of two. However, even after writing four more drafts, I could not derive any satisfaction from chapter 12. It was missing a crucial element, which I realised was horror. After all, what is Warhammer without protagonists who are as monstrous as the monsters they hunt? To achieve that, I decided to shift character focus from just Giovanni Giuseppe, and made his underlings character focus as well. I also decided to draw upon the lessons from Lovecraft, yet again, and obscure Fruehauf's appearances. Sure, the readers, namely you, already knew what Fruehauf looked like, but not the heretics. And facing that unknown should terrify the hair out of them.

And so, here it is. I would appreciate it if you, the readers, would give me some feedback, see if I had succeeded in painting Fruehauf as a monster, even to the monsters.


End file.
